In the Blink of an Eye
by thatwritr
Summary: New Moon AU. Bella went cliff diving but it didn't turn out well. She broke her back. A decade later, Edward reappears in her life on the same night she loses her best friend and husband to a freak accident. She's not thrilled to see him. Eventual E/B
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** I've read a lot of _New Moon_ AUs of one type or another. Sometimes I get frustrated by what seems to be bad research -- but my mama used to say, "Put up or shut up." So I'm putting up. I should admit at the outset, I'm pretty new at this. I have no idea how long this is gonna be, or how often I'll be able to update. Patience? I do, actually, have an end-point in mind. It's not just drifting.

* * *

"Yeah, uh, I just, um, wanted to talk about my grade."

The boy raises his eyes. They're a pretty light blue, framed by long dark lashes. He offers a winning smile. In reply, Bella lifts an eyebrow. Silence stretches . . . breaks. Uncomfortable, the boy babbles to fill it. "I was wondering if, you know, you might look at my short answers and stuff again, because, well, I thought my grade . . . it was sorta harsh. I mean, this _is_ an intro class and all." The smile deepens as he sidles in the door of her glorified-closet-cum-office. T.A.s -- teaching assistants -- can't expect much, and Bella barely has room for a desk and filing cabinet in addition to her chair.

Ignoring the undergrad's attempt at charm, Bella holds out a hand towards him and he lays his exam in her palm. Taking it and turning her back on him, she sets it on her desk and flips to the identification questions at the back, then must bite her tongue to resist snorting. "Well," she says, glancing down the series of 'answers' -- "it might be a good start if you took the 'Give two to four sentences identifying the terms' part of the instructions seriously. Two to four _words_ doesn't equate to two to four _sentences_." Slamming the exam closed, she unceremoniously hands it back to him. "I think your grade is justified. If you want to contest it, see Dr. DeSanti."

He doesn't take the exam. Instead, a frown replaces the smile and he comes a little further into the office so he towers over her. "It's an intro class!" he repeats. She's not sure if he's trying to intimidate her or not.

"Yes, and? These _are_ introductory level questions."

"I was an A-student in high school! I've never had this stuff before! It's hard! The professor expects us to remember too much!"

"Hmm. That must be why the class average was, oh, a 78 while you got a ..." she glances at the upper-right-hand corner of his test, "56. Clearly everybody else thought it was too hard, too."

Snatching the exam out of her hand, he turns on his heel and stalks out. "Bitch," she hears him mutter from the hall. For just an instant, she considers calling him back but then just sighs. Why bother? His sort is all too common -- frat boys who don't want to study for a gen-ed class they think a waste of time. They're used to trading on a pretty face for a passing grade. He'd certainly had the charm on full-bore when he'd first come to her office. But Bella Jackson neé Swan is automatically skeptical of pretty faces, has been since seventeen when she'd first discovered the earnest professions of pretty boys couldn't be relied upon. That, however, is an old chapter. She thinks of it only fleetingly these days.

It's 5:30, and her office hours are over for the day. Shutting down her laptop, she stores it in the sack on the back of her chair, then unlocks her brakes. Executing a perfect three-point turn from long practice, she wheels into the hallway, closing her door behind her. Fishing out her cell phone, she hits Speed Dial One and waits for the other person to answer as she winds her way out of the maze of Religion and Philosophy into the main building hallway. She needs to pee; or at least, her watch tells her that her body needs to pee even if she can't feel the urge.

"Hey, pretty woman," comes a tinny voice over the Bluetooth attached to her ear.

"Hey, handsome man."

"You done for the day?"

"Yup. Need to take a little bathroom break, then I'll head for the bus stop. I should be home by five."

"See you then. I'm making shrimp Szechuan stir-fry."

He knows she loves shrimp. He also knows how she hates to cook after cooking for one parent or the other for most of her young life. "You spoil me."

"You need to be spoiled, babe."

She laughs. "See you soon, sweetheart."

"Soon, love."

She cuts the connection as she approaches the women's room, then backs up her chair to the wall so she can reach the handle and perform the complicated little pull-and-spin to crack it open, caught on her wheel. Then she shoves it wide enough to zip inside. "Handicapped access" usually isn't, she's learned, and thinks any architect who designs for wheelchairs ought to spend 48 hours in one first. It might prevent stupid things like heavy doors, or sharp L-turns, or those damn industrial-strength toilet-paper rolls set so close to the floor she can't REACH them. She has to get toilet paper _before_ she gets out of the chair. Once upon a time, things like that would've sent her into a paroxysm of rage, slamming fists against the aluminum walls and screaming. These days, she takes it in stride.

It's a complicated process but she has long practice, and her body's been trained to evacuate even if she can't feel the muscles. She pushes down on her abdomen until she hears the hiss of urine hitting the water. It's called Crede evacuation, better (to her mind) than intermittent or permanent catheterization. This is the unromantic side of paraplegia. She is a T-12/L-1 SCI. The good news is she's _only_ a T-12/L-1 SCI. Had the break been higher, she might have to worry about more than bladder and bowel control.

Finished, she cleans herself up, then climbs back into her chair and heads out of the building. On the horizon, the sun is lowering and gold light glitters through turning leaves, the rich pinks of sugar maples and the yellow of beeches and poplar. The oaks haven't turned yet, but the Leaf Peepers will be coming soon, traveling I-75 in waves up from Atlanta, headed for Helen, or Cherokee, or Ashland, and then the Blue Ridge further north. It's lovely weather, cool enough that she's not even sweating by the time she reaches the bus stop. She has five minutes to wait and might have pulled out a book to pass the time, but the sky is too perfect a shade of quartz, and two fox squirrels are having a battle over territory. She watches as they bark and chatter and chase each other at top speed over the autumn campus lawn, empty benches, and finally up a pair of neighboring trees where they occupy opposite branches and scold each other non-stop. It makes her laugh.

The rumble and hiss of the bus arriving diverts her attention and she waves to the driver, who's opened the center disabled-access door and lowered the ramp. She rolls aboard and it lifts her up as the doors hiss closed. "Hello, Bella!" the driver calls.

"Hello, Ben," she calls back.

"Have a good day?"

"Mostly. You?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," he says, nodding his gray head as he pulls out into traffic. He's been driving this route since Bella and Mark first moved to town and started graduate work at the exclusive liberal arts college in northern Georgia. In larger towns, bus drivers sometimes pretended not to see disabled passengers, zooming by stops, not wanting to be bothered -- she remembers Jacksonville too well, and Atlanta was worse. But in a small town like this it's not so bad. Ben will even wait a minute or two if she's not there when he expects her to be. She's made certain to call the public transportation office and compliment him, so he stays on her route.

It's not a long trip from campus to her apartment complex, but in Dawsonville, nothing is very far from anything else. She tells Ben goodbye and heads up the sidewalk towards the complex.

She knows something is wrong before she passes the first building. In the distance, there are flashing lights and emergency sirens. Heart in throat, she rolls faster even as she tells herself she shouldn't be worried. After all, how many people live in this complex? Moreover, even if the place does cater to the disabled, there are a lot more disabled over 60 than under 30.

Yet the closer she comes to the ground-floor apartment she shares with Mark, the faster her heart beats. The sirens are too close, too close. She turns the last corner, wheels flying over the concrete. She's making little panty-squeaky noises she's barely aware of . . .

. . . and oh, God, oh, God, the ambulance and fire truck are _right in front_ of her building, _right in front_ of the access hall to her apartment, and she sees the uniformed, fluorescent-jacketed emergency personnel dashing to and fro coming out of _her apartment_.

She screams. It's an instinctive, panicked response. She stops on the sidewalk, hands to face, and screams and screams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** I should've mentioned at the end of the first part -- the town and college are imaginary, although the details about college life and North Georgia aren't. Dawes College and Dawesonville have RL models, yes -- but it's not important what they are. The phone numbers are not real obviously, although the area code is for Jacksonville. :-) Some material in this story will be lifted from _Twilight_ canon revealed in later books, although none of the _events_ from those books occurred.

This story is currently rated /T/ but will eventually be rated /M/. It's themes, ideas and concepts are adult.

* * *

Distraught, Bella's fingers tear at her hair and face, and her scream has startled the police and EMTs -- but they're well used to panicking people. One EMT in a fluorescent jacket peels off from the rest to trot over, dropping down in front of her to grab her hands and hold fast so she can't hurt herself. "Calm down, miss. Do you live here?"

"What happened?" Bella demands, voice cracking high as she looks past him. His fellows are wheeling out a figure on a gurney covered in a white sheet.

. . . _covered_ in a white sheet. But she can see one dark hand hanging loose. The men aren't in a hurry, either. It's no emergency anymore.

"No, no, no, no . . ." she whispers, shaking her head and wiggling fingers free from the EMT's. "WHAT HAPPENED?"

"There was an accident -- "

"NO FUCKING KIDDING! WHAT HAPPENED?" She knows she's screaming and acting irrationally, but she's past caring.

"Please, miss -- "

"THAT'S MY HUSBAND!"

Bella starts pushing forward again, trying to get around the man but he stops her easily. "Wait here -- "

"THAT'S MY HUSBAND!"

"Shhh, miss. Please. You need to stay back -- "

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY WAY!"

Two of the police trot over. Bella hates them for their easy mobility. "Is she family?" one, the man, asks.

"She says she's his wife," the EMT explains, and despite Bella's heart-in-throat terror, she doesn't miss their double-takes. Yet she's used to double-takes now, especially in small Georgia towns even in this day and age. When she mentions her husband, people expect a white man. When Mark mentions his wife, people expect a black woman.

The cops recover quickly and the female of the pair steps forward, slipping an arm around Bella's shoulders so as to turn her chair away where she can't see the medics loading the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Bella tries to fight it but she's crying and shaking too hard to manage. "My name's Megan Owens, ma'am. You're Mark Jackson's wife?"

"Yes. Isabella Jackson. I'm Isabella Jackson." She fumbles for her ID in the satchel on her chair but the cop shakes her head and lays a hand over Bella's.

"It's all right, Mrs. Jackson," Officer Owens says. "There was an accident. We're not sure what happened exactly, but your neighbor -- Mrs. Wreith -- heard him fall, or that's what she said when we talked to her. An alert came into MedScope around the same time apparently. His bracelet says he's an epileptic?" Bella nods. "He must have felt the seizure coming on -- "

"Mark knows the signs," Bella whispers.

"It looks like he hit his head on a kitchen counter as he fell. By the time the ambulance arrived" -- the officer's voice hitches -- "I'm afraid nothing could be done."

The words blow past and over Bella. She hears them but doesn't. "Mark's dead?"

Owens can't look at her for a moment. "I'm sorry. Yes."

But Bella asks again, "Mark's dead?" as if 'yes' that couldn't possibly be the answer. Her shaking has increased and she can't feel her fingers -- or her toes, but she hasn't felt those in 10 years so it hardly counts.

"I'm sorry, yes," Owens repeats. "He was already dead when the ambulance arrived."

"But they're supposed to come fast. They're supposed to prevent this. That's why we ordered the service . . ." Her voice is climbing again.

Owens rubs circles into her shoulders above the chair back, trying to be reassuring. "Sometimes . . . sometimes freak accidents just happen. The ambulance arrived within minutes of the MedScope alert. It wasn't the seizure that killed him, it doesn't look like; it was the fall."

Bella runs hands into her short hair, pulling on it; it's probably sticking straight up. "But Mark's been an epileptic fifteen years. He knows exactly what to do. He even has a helmet! Why didn't he have on his helmet?" She ignores, for the moment, how he hated the thing. She'd fussed at him more than once for not wearing it when he was alone and in the bathroom or kitchen where a fall could be especially dangerous.

"I don't know," Owens says now, not trying to argue, just rubbing Bella's shoulders still. "Is there anybody I can call for you?"

Barely able to think, Bella pulls at her hair again. "My mother and Mark's should be notified. Renee Dwyer. That's my mom; she lives in Jacksonville -- Florida -- with her husband Phil. 1-904-531-5489. And his mother, Martha Jackson. 1-904-346-2357. Oh, god, how will I face Mama?" She doesn't mean Renee.

"We'll be sure to contact your parents. Is there somebody local, though?"

"Somebody local . . . ?" Bella trails off. She should have somebody to name, but doesn't. Her classmates are acquaintances, not friends. Despite living in Dawesonville four years now, she and Mark have remained isolated. Some of it boils down to simple logistics. Most of their classmates don't live in or frequent places easy for a woman in a wheelchair to access. Some of it owes to subtle racism. She doubts there are 100 African Americans in the whole town, including the college; most live in nearby Connyville. And a bi-racial couple . . . well, Mark was viewed as uppity for marrying white, Bella just regarded as slumming; around here, only trailer trash married black. But beyond such issues, the two of them never had impetus to put down roots; Bella's best friend has always been Mark, and Mark's, Bella. Living here wasn't permanent, merely a stop on the way to their eventual academic careers. Now, she realizes how stupidly self-contained they've been, how short-sighted. Without Mark, she's all alone.

"I, uh, I guess you could call Lorraine Michaels," Bella says now. "She's my academic adviser. Dr. Lorraine Michaels, Director of Women's Studies at the college, but her home department is Soc-n-Anthro . . . uh, Sociology and Anthropology. I don't know her number, though. And Jeffrey Simmons, Philosophy and Religion. He's Mark's advisor."

Officer Owens has been writing this down, and now glances up. "I'll have somebody at the station locate their numbers and get in touch with 'em."

"My apartment!" Bella says suddenly, remembering. "I need to shut off the stove! Mark was cooking dinner . . . " She starts to wheel away.

The officer halts her. "It's all been taken care of, Mrs. Jackson. Everything was turned off."

Bella's heart slows down again, but the new rush of adrenaline has renewed her shaking where her hands grip the chair wheels. "I should still . . . I need . . . " She trails off because she doesn't know if she really _wants_ to go inside. Would there be blood? Could she stand to see where he'd fallen? Where he'd died? Letting go of the wheels, she hides her face in her hands. "What do I do next?" she whispers between fingers. "I can't . . . I can't even _think_."

The officer kneels down in front of her and grips her wrists. "It's gonna be all right, honey." But Bella doubts that. "Do you need a ride to the hospital?" Bella looks up as Owens gestures to Bella's chair. "Does that, uh, fold up?"

"Yeah, the back folds down and the wheels pop off, same as a racing bike." Bella shows Owens the lever to release the wheels, then lets the officer help her into the squad car and put her chair in the back. The woman's partner is staying at Bella's apartment. Daughter of a police chief, Bella knows they have to investigate the scene even if it's fairly clear it was an accident. Formalities and paperwork. But it reminds her. "Somebody should call my father, too," she says as Owens climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine. "Charlie Swan. He's the police chief out in Forks, Washington. He'll want to know."

Officer Owens glances over and nods, pulling out the pad to add Charlie's name to the list. "Your dad's a cop?"

Only then does Bella realize how her comment may have sounded: _Don't try anything; I have connections._ "Sorry, I just realized that I gave you my mom's name and number, and Mark's mom, but not my dad's. Somebody should tell him too."

"Absolutely, hon. Does -- did -- Mr. Jackson have a father?"

And oh, so much is packed into that question -- so many assumptions about blacks here in the rural South. This isn't urban, cosmopolitan Atlanta, or even New-Agey Ashville. "Mark's dad died when he was little," Bella says, swallowing irritation. "His mom never remarried. She took over his church instead. It keeps her busy."

"Oh. Well, yeah, I reckon it would."

Bella senses the woman would like to ask more, but doesn't, and Bella's grateful. At least at first. It isn't far to the hospital on the outskirts of Dawesonville, but as she'd thought earlier on the bus, it isn't far to anywhere here. Even so, it's far enough for her numbed mind to wake a little and begin to imagine what happened -- and she wishes now for distraction.

Mark is dead.  
_  
Her Mark is dead._

It's too final, too absolute for her to grasp. She lays her head against the squad car window and stares out into the passing countryside. It's near full-dark now -- how ironic. The sun has gone down on joy yet again for her.

How long did Mark lie there, she wonders, seizing and bleeding inside his head? Was he in pain? Or did he die instantly? Did the dying hurt? Or did he simply pass from awareness of a seizure's onset -- enough awareness to punch the alert button on the wristband he always wore -- down into nothing? Into death?

But death isn't nothing. Bella doesn't believe death the end. If she might not subscribe to any institutionalized religion -- her mother-in-law notwithstanding -- she believes in souls. She's seen too many inexplicable things in life -- met and interacted with creatures straight out of myth -- to hold a purely scientific view of the universe that says human beings are only electrical impulses animating water and matter. _'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'_ She still loves Shakespeare. And if vampires exist, if Quilleute shape-shifters -- if vodoun (Mark and his mother swear up and down that it does) -- then the existence of a soul seems like a small leap of faith.

So Mark's body might be dead. But Mark . . . she knows he's still out there, his spirit. She trusts that. "Help me," she whispers to him, wherever he is. "I'm lost without you."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Officer Owens reaches the hospital, Bella has a splitting headache in addition to everything else. Owens retrieves her chair and reassembles it, then helps her out of the squad car and into ER, where she's directed to a small private room decorated in calming blues and grays and stocked with plenty of tissues. Doctors, hospital staff, and police come and go, asking for phone contacts and personal information and insurance company numbers -- not to mention starting the arrangements for a funeral home -- all the tedious logistics of death that can't wait on grief. Bella tries to pull herself together enough to answer.

As Mark had been DOA -- dead on arrival -- his body was taken directly to the hospital morgue, but because he'd died suddenly without a doctor present, an autopsy would be necessary. "It's pretty clear the cause of death is a cerebral hemorrhage from the blow he took to the head," a doctor says, somebody whose name she can't remember. "But it's a state law in cases like this, just to be sure we're not missing something."

"Okay, fine," Bella replies. She doesn't care really. The body is just a shell. "Can I see him?" She can't quite believe he's dead, keeps expecting him to pop in and declare it all an elaborate ruse. She needs to see for herself. She needs to _see_ he's dead.

There's a pause. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"All right. We'll have the chaplain go with you in a moment."

They talk to her some more -- or talk at her, really. Her answers are stuttered and confused but nobody acts impatient (or if they do, she's too distracted to notice). Finally they're done and she can leave with the chaplain, a tall, middle-aged woman dressed in a collar like a Catholic priest but Bella's aware a lot of chaplains wear them. "What denomination are you?" she asks the woman, whose name is Eloise.

"Presbyterian," Eloise replies.

"U.S.A., Evangelical, Reformed . . . ?" Bella finds an odd peace in discussing something she knows.

Eloise's glance is sharp. "U.S.A. Are you Presbyterian?"

"No. But my husband's mother is a Baptist pastor -- National Baptist -- and he's a religious studies grad student. He was." She chokes on it.

Reaching over, Eloise lays a hand on her shoulder as they make their way down a nondescript hallway towards an elevator. "Tenses will be hard for a while." She says this matter-of-factly; it keeps Bella from breaking down.

They reach the elevator and take it to the hospital basement. The morgue has been alerted and is ready for her. Eloise leads her into a privacy room with a window where she can see the gurney beyond, isolated from the rest of the morgue by a pale blue curtain. The body is still covered by a sheet. "Can't I be in the room?" she asks.

"You're sure?" Eloise asks.

"Yes," Bella replies. "I need to be in the room."

So they let her enter but watch her carefully as if expecting her to go to pieces. After a life that's been a series of tragedies, becoming a widow at 27 is only the most recent. Her spine might be broken, but she's got an iron backbone. "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger," Mark had used to say.

"Are you ready?" the coroner asks. Bella nods and he turns back the sheet, although he keeps part of Mark's shaved head covered -- probably the part where it hit the counter. Mark's sweet face is still -- so very still -- and the back of her hand goes up to her mouth. Even if she hadn't already known he was dead, there would be no mistaking this for somebody unconscious. His black skin looks almost gray and she's unexpectedly reminded of the Cullens, even if she hasn't seen them for a decade. There's a world of difference, she realizes, between 'dead' and 'undead,' no matter how pale they'd been. They'd still been _animated_. Mark's face was never this slack or empty even when asleep. It looks like Mark, but it's not him. No lights are on and nobody's home. Yet it's easier, seeing. She'd been imagining horrible things.

Wheeling forward, she leans over to lay her hand on his crossed above his chest. The skin is cold, like the room. His wedding band winks gold under high lights. "I love you . . . " she whispers. She can feel hot tears burn her eyes.

Her cell phone rings -- a blasting, interruptive sound in the morgue silence, startling everybody, her not least. Always the klutz, she fumbles while digging it out of her bag and it pops from her hands like a slippery fish, skidding across the floor where she can't chase it. "_Shit!_" she shouts. After so much, this small frustration is the last straw and she bursts into tears.

The coroner chases after the phone while Eloise hugs her tight. "It's okay," the chaplain mutters, stroking Bella's hair. "You get it all out, sugar. You need a good cry."

Bella can hear the coroner talking to whoever called while Bella sobs against the softness of Eloise's abdomen, arms clutching Eloise's back. It's like being held by Martha, Mark's mother. After a while, the tears slow, then stop, and she pulls away, wiping at her face. She must look quite a sight. The coroner has brought her tissues. It requires a handful to clean her face and blow her nose. Then he returns her phone. "It's your mother. She said to call her when you're ready. But reception isn't very good down here. You might do better upstairs."

"Thank you," Bella says.

"Do you want a few more minutes with him?" he asks.

She starts to say 'no,' then changes her mind. "Yes." This is her goodbye. The next time she sees Mark, he'll be in a casket. The coroner and chaplain leave her in peace, and she talks to Mark for a while, stroking the rubbery skin of his face. She doesn't disturb the sheet where it conceals the left side of his head. She tells him about her day like she would have done over supper -- her importunate student, her hours chasing an elusive article in JSTOR. "I found it finally. You'd be proud. I used one of your tricks for searching." At last, she's out of words. "I'm sorry we didn't get to try the stir-fry," she says. Realizing he'll never cook for her again, she breaks down one more. One would think a body'd run out of tears after a while. Hers just keep coming, and her face is _sore_ from sobbing. But she feels washed out, clean -- almost translucent, like a crystal wine glass. And just as empty.

She leaves finally. Eloise is waiting in the hall, leaning against the far wall. The coroner is nowhere to be seen, probably back at work. "I should call my mother," Bella says.

"Do it when you're ready," Eloise tells her.

"She'll be waiting."

"That's okay, she can wait. You need to take care of you first." Bella's smile is thin; Eloise _sounds_ like Martha, too. "Let's get you some coffee," Eloise says, gesturing back down the hall the same way they'd come.

Upstairs, Bella is taken to a different privacy room, one near the chaplain's office, and provided with coffee, tissues, and a pad and pen. There's paperwork in a folder. A lot of paperwork, and she's sure it's just the tip of the iceberg. "Do you want me to stay while you call, or would you rather be alone?" Eloise asks.

"I"ll be fine, thanks," Bella says and the older woman departs. Bella calls her mother first.

"Bella!" Renee practically screams over the phone. "Oh, my God! Bella!" She sounds panicked, but she panics when she misses her turn off the highway so this isn't unusual. Life with Renee is a nonstop drama.

"Hello, Mom," Bella says. She's already tired and the conversation hasn't even started. "I'm sorry I didn't call you right back."

"I thought something else terrible had happened!"

"No, mom. I just . . . I needed some time alone with him. With the body."

There's a pause. Despite Renee's periodic spiritual quests, she's never been comfortable talking bluntly about death. Sex, yes, death, no. Instead, she changes the subject. "Martha and I are on the way. Phil's driving us."

"Has somebody called Jada and Rosa?" Mark's older sisters.

"I think Martha did. We'll be leaving soon; I was just waiting to talk to you. But it's six hours from here to there."

"I know, Mom."

"Where will you be?"

Turning the pen end-over-end, Bella says, "There's no reason to stay at the hospital. I guess I'll go home."

"Are you sure? That's where . . . "

"Yes, Mom, that's where he died. But it's also where I live." She knows she sounds impatient and harsh, but she's frustrated. Where does Renee think she has to go if not home?

"Bella, honey, I'm just thinking of your state of mind . . . "

"_I know._ I'll be fine. I'm tough, remember?"

"Of course you are. My tough little cookie. We'll see you at your place, then."

"Call when you get into town -- so I'm awake to let you in." Although honestly, Bella doubts she'll be able to sleep until she collapses from sheer exhaustion. Her watch says it's only eighty-thirty. She closes the phone and swallows her resentment with it.

She doesn't want to be alone right now, but she's not ready for Renee, even with Martha there. Martha will be too upset to run interference like she usually does, and Phil -- well, he's his own brand of self-involved. He'll be no help, either.

When she'd been younger, Bella had thought of her mother as her best friend, in part because that's how Renee had wanted to _be_ thought of. She'd preened when anybody mistook her for Bella's older sister. They'd shopped and giggled and dished about movie stars and rock bands late into the night, and Bella's friends had told her how lucky she was to have such a cool mom. But even then, Bella had known something was wrong with that picture when she, not Renee, watched what they spent and angsted over bounced checks. When Renee had married Phil, Bella had moved to Forks, viewing it as a martyred self-exile. Looking back now, she recognizes she'd actually been _escaping_ -- her subconscious seeing an opportunity and seizing it. In Forks, Bella had become her father's housekeeper, but that had been a different role. Charlie might have been a bachelor and a little helpless in some ways, but at least he'd been a grown up. Renee remains perpetually sixteen, flighty and given to fads and emotional extremes.

Thinking of Charlie, Bella steels herself to call him, be sure he's been notified about Mark. It's awkward. Charlie still blames himself for Bella's accident, as if he could've foreseen her stupid stunt, diving off the First Beach cliffs. Things have never been easy between them since. To make matters worse, he wasn't comfortable with Mark, either. Bella finds this ironic. Charlie's best friend growing up and for most of his adult life has been Billy Black, a Native American. Charlie even had hopes once that Bella might start seeing Billy's son Jacob. Yet he'd not been happy when Bella had married a black man.

Nonetheless, he promises he'll fly to Dawesonville as soon as he can. "I'll call you when I get a ticket," he says. "You take care of yourself, baby. Don't let Renee run roughshod over you."

"I won't, Dad."

She calls Jacob Black after that. His wife answers. "Irene, is Jake there? It's Bella."

"He's feeding Jilly. It's six here."

"Oh, sorry. I . . . there's been an accident."

"What happened?"

"Mark . . . " And she breaks anew, sobbing into the phone. Irene slowly extracts the story, then talks Bella down. And this is -- honestly -- why Bella called. Not so much to talk to Jake but to talk to Irene, who has both sympathy and horse sense.

"Bella, we'll try to get there for the funeral . . . "

"Nonesense," Bella tells her. "You can't afford it. You have three girls and Jake's business, and you're not family. The airlines won't cut you a deal. It's too far to drive."

"We'll manage."

"No." Bella's voice is firm. "No arguments."

Irene doesn't argue, which is why Bella loves her almost as much as she loves Jake. "I'll sing for him," Irene promises, her voice intense. "I'll make a special song for him."

"Thanks," Bella says. Despite her friendship with Jake, Bella's knowledge of Quileute religion is pretty shaky. And Irene isn't Quileute anyway, but Skokomish, whose reservation is nearby. "Mark would like that, I think." Mark spent hours talking to Jake and Irene (and anybody else who'd talk) about their beliefs. He'd said it reminded him of traditional Eastern African religion. He'd always been curious, chasing down the similarities between people, not differences.

Bella hangs up even as somebody knocks on the door to the family room. "Come in," Bella calls.

Eloise opens it and sticks her head in. "There's somebody here for you," she says.

Frowning, puzzled, Bella wheels out to find her academic advisor standing there, looking slightly shell-shocked. "Bella?" Lorraine Michaels asks, bending to hug her. "Oh, you poor dear!"

There are more explanations and hand-holding. Lorraine offers to drive Bella home, but as she owns a Cooper Mini, Bella doubts her wheelchair will fit. "I'll just take the bus," Bella says.

"You're not taking the bus!" Lorraine insists. "I'll call a cab for you."

"I can take her," says a new voice. "Her chair will fit in my car."

Bella and Lorraine turn to look and -- for just a moment -- Bella thinks she's hallucinating. Time reverts by a decade.

"Edward?" she whispers, not believing her eyes. He looks no different. But of course he wouldn't. She really _must_ be delusional with grief. Why would _Edward_ be standing here in a small-town hospital in North Georgia? How could he possibly have known what happened?

More to the point, why would he care?

"You know him?" Lorraine asks Bella, then turns to Edward. Her face is suspicious, but also a little relieved. Bella thinks she doesn't mind not having to worry about getting Bella home. "You're a friend of Bella's and Mark's?"

"I'm . . . a friend," Edward says. Nobody unfamiliar with him would hear the catch in his voice. "I'll be sure Bella gets home, and stay with her until her and her husband's parents arrive."

Lorraine looks to Bella, although Bella's eyes are glued to the face of Edward Cullen. "You know him?" Lorraine asks.

"Yes." Bella forces herself back into the present, turning to her advisor. "It's okay, Dr. Michaels. I'll be fine; you can go home. Thanks for coming." She says the last fervently.

Lorraine squeezes her hands. "Oh, sweetie, of course I came! I'll call you tomorrow, okay? You don't worry about a thing."

"My classes . . . "

"Don't worry about it," Lorraine says. "That should be the last thing on your mind, right now." Lorraine slips off and Bella turns finally to the silent figure who's been observing.

They lock eyes. "What are you doing here?" she asks. There are many, many levels to that question.

"Watching over you," he says.

She's completely baffled by this response. And angry. She doesn't need this on top of everything else tonight. "Why on earth would you do that? You left ten years ago. Why would you suddenly pop up _now_?"

"Um, ah -- " he stutters, staring at the dun-dull waiting room carpet. Even under hospital lights, his skin has a faint sheen to it. He both is -- and is not -- as beautiful as she remembers. She no longer thinks he looks like Adonis. He just looks like a boy -- a little too pretty, a little too pale, a little too thin. And awkward. She doesn't remember him being this awkward. His long fingers are buried in red-brown hair and he's unable to meet her eyes. "You needed a ride home?" he asks now.

She blinks. "That's it? I _needed a ride_?"

"Well, you do, don't you?"

She stares. Then she spins her chair around and wheels away. "Go to hell, Edward! I'll call a cab."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** A little sidetrip into Edward's head.

* * *

_That,_ Edward thinks, _didn't go so well._

He couldn't say that it hadn't gone like he'd expected because he hadn't really expected anything in particular. At least she hadn't hit him. Of course, being in a wheelchair meant she couldn't _reach_ him but he still figures not being decked within the first minute still puts this re-meeting ahead of his initial meeting with Mark Jackson.

In any case, she's getting away. She moves fast in the chair when she wants to. "Bella!" he calls, trotting after her at a normal human pace.

She spins the chair. "What part of 'go to hell' did you not understand, Edward?" She makes shooing motions with her gloved hands. "Shoo. Skedaddle. Get lost. Go 'distract' yourself. I thought you promised I'd never see you again? But promises are easy for you to break, aren't they?"

Sticks and stones might not break his bones, but words -- words were still strong enough to pierce him. "I've made a lot of promises," he says now, but doesn't elaborate. "And you still need a ride."

She just stares at him. It's strange, to have those dark eyes trained on him, really seeing him, not seeing the place he'd just been, or being observed surreptitiously from a safe distance. Her face is tired, sad, and irritated -- but not really angry. He doubts he means enough to her anymore for her to be really angry. And that hurts. He tells himself she's too numb for real anger, and he'd like to believe it . . . but doesn't. Nor does it matter anyway; whatever she'd said about his inability to keep promises, he's standing here now because of several. It is a complicated weave of promises, in fact, that makes him say again, "At least let me drive you home. Don't be stubborn, Bella. There's no reason to pay for a taxi."

She relents. He can see it first in her eyes, then in her face as it crumples with exhaustion and she raises a hand to rub a thumb right between her brows. "Fine," she says at last. "You can drive me home. On two conditions."

"Name them." He probably shouldn't offer such carte blanche, but at the moment, his primary goal is to get her out of the hospital.

"You won't talk to me on the drive, and you'll leave once we're there. You're my substitute taxi driver. That's all."

He feels his lips thin, but his mind is already racing to work out the loopholes. "Deal," he says. After all, she didn't put a limit on how long he had to stay gone. She just said he had to leave. "I'll meet you out front with the car." He gestures to the main hospital entrance in the distance. He'd offer to push her the long length of the corridor, but knows exactly how that would go over. Even her husband wouldn't have been able to get away with that.

He waits until he is outside in the dark before taking off at his natural speed, reaching his car within seconds. He has it unlocked and is back across the parking lot even as she's wheeling out the door. Pulling up under the rain shelter over the circular drive, he puts the car in park and is out his door in moments, raising the back before opening the passenger-side door.

"The back," she says. Her voice is clipped. "You're my taxi driver, remember?" He sighs, but doesn't argue -- and doesn't speak, either. He just opens the rear passenger door. She wheels forward, running an eye over the vehicle's sleek lines. "Pretty," she says. "It's silver, but not a Volvo. At least you're environmentally responsible." She points to the little "hybrid" plate.

He's not sure if he's allowed to reply, but decides to take a chance. "Gas prices got too high."

"You bought an _Audi_ because you cared about price?" Her voice is amused.

"Not particularly, but I do care about my carbon fingerprint."

"Ah -- you saw _An Inconvenient Truth_."

He rolls his eyes. "I didn't need Al Gore working PowerPoint to convince me, Bella."

"I don't remember your family being that Green -- what with all the cars."

He doesn't point out there are a lot of things she never noticed; she was young then. And she's being snarky now. The shock of Mark's death must be wearing off. There will be anger next, and depression, and blame. Bargaining perhaps. It will go in cycles.

In any case, he also knows she can't get inside without his help. She's good, but the SUV seat is simply too raised for her to swivel out of her chair and up that high. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to the backseat then holding out his arms to show what he means. Her body language says it all. Almost unconsciously, she leans back, chin pulled in, then reconciles herself to the necessity and shrugs. He conceals his own eagerness to _touch_ her once more, however impersonally.

It's almost overwhelming -- the scent of her, the feel of her, the warmth of living human flesh in his arms, against his chest. Soft, so soft . . . he resists leaning in to sniff her and she holds herself stiffly, at least the part of her body under her control. Her legs and hips are a dead weight. It kills him a little to lift her like this -- because he has to, not because she wants him to. Once she's safely in the leather seat, he leans over to get the seatbelt and buckle her up. He just wants to be close a moment more, but she reaches out to grab the belt for herself. "I can do that, thank you." Her voice is as stiff as her posture. "I'm not _four_."

Obediently, he pulls back. Right now, he'll do whatever's necessary to keep her from making him promise to stay away, not just go away. Instead, he turns to retrieve her bag from the chair and hand it over, then starts to breakdown the wheelchair to put in it the SUV rear. "The back folds up and there are levers on the wheel hubs that release the wheels," she instructs.

"I know," he says softly.

"Ah, I guess so. Former medical student -- twice even."

He doesn't explain it's now three times, although the last is technically a Ph.D in neuroscience done in record time (it helped that he wasn't starting from scratch and could fake the paperwork for the master's in biochemistry that he actually has, although it was over thirty years out-of-date and he had to play a lot of catch-up). Nor does he explain his medical degrees aren't why he knows how to breakdown her chair. He makes quick work of it, but not before stealing a whiff. It smells like her too, if not at pleasant as the scent at her neck. There is sweat and urine mixed with the unique freesia that screams 'Bella.' The chair isn't dirty, but she sits in it constantly and his sense of smell is a hundred times better than a human's. Incontinence is one of those unpleasant realities of living with spinal-chord injury.

Her chair safely stored, he gets back behind the wheel and pulls away from the curb. She gives him quiet directions and he pretends he doesn't already know where and when to turn. They are halfway back to her apartment before she adds after a 'turn right' -- "You still drive like a maniac."

He shrugs. "And I've still never had an accident -- or caused one."

"Braggart." But it's not said viciously; there is a hint in it of their banter from ten years gone and he must bite back a smile. Bella was never very good at silence, and he'd suspected that if he didn't fight her about it, he'd get further than if he did. Of course, given the events of the evening, he shouldn't be smiling at all; it's hardly a night for levity. Yet he is a convict unexpectedly released from prison and wild with his freedom, even if his release owes to another man's death. He will mourn for Mark Jackson tomorrow. And he _will_ mourn. It's a hell of a note that he'd actually _liked_ his former girlfriend's now-late husband. But he had. It made things easier and harder at once. So he will mourn for Mark.

But not tonight.

Tonight he drives through the streets of a small north Georgia college town with the woman he loves tucked in the seat behind him. His heart sings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** Back to Bella; there are some specific notes about details at the end.

* * *

Edward cleans up her kitchen, then brings Bella dinner -- and something for breakfast too. She is annoyed but grateful, and too pragmatic to turn it down. Like a flood survivor clinging to plywood, she is willing to grab any outstretched hand offering help. Crisis rearranges priorities and sacrifices pride to necessity.

In any case, the police may have turned off the stove and examined the scene, but it wasn't their job to dispose of half-cooked shrimp or wash dishes. Edward does that, quickly and efficiently. The place still smells like fish. She doesn't ask him if he had to clean up anything else in there (blood); she doesn't want to know. Yet her mind insists on wondering. When he comes back out to where she is waiting in the small living room, going through papers at the desk she and Mark had shared, he doesn't appear to be distressed. If there was blood in the kitchen, even dried, surely he would look distressed. Or so she argues with herself.

She decides she will think later about what his sudden appearance here might mean. Right now, she is more concerned with surviving minute to minute, and trying to process. The immediate shock is wearing off, but there is a deeper shock below it, one that begins to consider all the ramifications and paralyzes her with the enormity of it all. She has not only lost her lover and friend, but more than half their income and is in the middle of a semester as a teaching assistant -- not to mention she is scheduled to take her comps and orals early next semester. Something will have to give. She hopes it's not her entire academic career because she has very little to fall back on, and can't bear the thought of returning home to live with her mother for any length of time. But can she -- realistically speaking -- _afford_ to remain at Dawes and complete her doctorate, either?

Thus she has much bigger fish to fry in the way of decisions than whether or not to allow Edward Cullen to clean up her kitchen or bring her a few meals, whatever she told him at the hospital. She even musters a "thank you." He accepts it solemnly. There is a surprising kindness in his face, or surprising considering the circumstances under which she last saw him when she was barely seventeen.

"I spoke to Alice," he says. "Your mother and his should be here before dawn, but they took longer to get out of town than expected, so it won't be much before dawn. You should sleep."

She laughs and runs a hand into her messy, greasy hair. She's not sure she's combed it in hours. "I doubt I'll sleep tonight."

"I could bring you some sleeping pills -- "

"No," she cuts him off. "I don't need -- or want -- sleeping pills. I _need_ to think -- not be drugged."

He doesn't argue with her. Once he would have, but they've both changed, whatever he insisted long ago about vampire rigidity. Instead, he says, "I've programmed my phone number into your cell phone, and I wrote it in your phone book, too, along with Esme's. If you don't want to talk to me -- and I'll understand if you don't -- maybe you'd talk to her. Call me -- or her -- if you need anything. I'm serious, Bella. This isn't a time to go it alone."

She frowns up at him, puzzled anew by his earnest sincerity. "I let you drive me home," she points out. "That's not going it alone."

He only nods, holding her eyes a moment more, then he opens his mouth as if he'll say something but shakes his head and is gone. Just like that. If not for the Subway sandwich waiting on her kitchen table, and a coffee cake on the counter large enough for several people, she'd believe she'd hallucinated his presence.

Sandwich consumed, she has mostly forgotten about him within the hour, her attention transfixed by the myriad questions and problems facing her. In the echoing emptiness of the apartment she shared with Mark, surrounded by his things, she cries again. She is overwhelmed and unsure how she'll make it through. Cried-out yet again at last, she gets water from the fridge and takes Excedrin for her renewed headache. Then she climbs out of her chair to lie down on the living room sofa. There is no way she can consider going into their bedroom, never mind sleeping in their bed. She isn't sure what time she dozes off, but it's somewhere after midnight.

Her phone wakes her and she fumbles for it, opening it to answer, "Hello?"

"Bella, honey? We just left the interstate and should be at your place in about ten minutes."

"Okay, mom."

"You're home?"

"Yes, mom."

"See you as soon as we can get there."

Bella hangs up and drags herself off the couch into her chair. She should be hungry but isn't. Fortunately, she didn't wet herself overnight, but that's not necessarily a good thing. She suffers from flaccid bladder and if she doesn't empty it regularly, it could rupture, which would land _her_ in the hospital. Now, she hurries to the bathroom to take care of business, wash her face and brush her teeth. She doesn't have time to shower, but frankly doesn't care. There's a knock on her door about the time she finishes, and she wheels out to answer.

As soon as the door is open, her mother nearly smothers her with a hug. Renee is weeping, but for a moment, all Bella can do is cough. Renee has always worn too much perfume, and smells a little like an overstuffed florist shop. "Renee, let the girl breathe, woman," says a new voice, one Bella loves dearly. Then Renee's embrace is replaced by Martha's -- and this time it is Bella who weeps -- with relief, with gratitude, with sorrow. This is her real mother, and as much as she loves Renee, she respects and adores Martha.

Renee has blown past in any case, toting her bag and taking stock of the place even as Phil arrives with a few more bags. He gives Bella a sad smile and kiss on the cheek, telling her, "Your mother and I will get a room at the closest motel as soon as it's check-in time. Martha's going to stay here with you. There's not room for all of us here anyway." Bella nods, and just like that, lets go of decision making at least for now. It's a relief.

The rest of the day passes in a blur for Bella. She can't even remember what day of the week it is, must ask over and over or check the newspaper headlines. (It's Wednesday.) There are funeral arrangements to be made, a death certificate to collect, legal proceedings to go through. The autopsy doesn't take long; there's no mystery here. Mark Jackson died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage after suffering a blow to the side of his head. Had he not hit his head, or had he been wearing the protective helmet he was supposed to wear while working alone in a room with lots of hard surfaces, there would've been nothing especially different about this seizure than any of the others he'd lived through without much incident. But instead, simple carelessness has left him dead at twenty-eight. His mother writes the obituary herself:

_Mark Joshua Jackson entered this world at seven minutes till midnight on February 29th in the leap year 1988. He left it early in the evening of October 18th, 2016 at the age of only 28. He smiled early, walked and talked early, and his parents -- the Reverends Clinton and Martha Jackson -- knew their youngest would be somebody special. They never guessed how special._

_Diagnosed with severe juvenile myoclonic epilepsy at the age of thirteen -- only three years after he lost his father to a heart attack -- Jackson spent more than a year in and out of hospitals. Once the epilepsy was managed, he continued to spend time in and out of hospitals -- but as a volunteer for the Jacksonville Faith and Hope Coalition, a group created to support young people whose lives have been transformed by catastrophic illness or accidents. He is remembered by coalition leaders as possessing extraordinary courage and strength. He is also remembered for his luminous smile. "His smile was always the first thing you noticed about Mark," said Eliza Marshal, Faith and Hope's chief director for the past fourteen years. "Nothing kept him down for long."_

_Jackson graduated cume laude from Robert E. Lee High School in Jacksonville, Florida in 2006. After taking off a year for volunteer work, he attended Morehouse College in Atlanta on scholarship and was admitted to their honors program, graduating with a double major in philosophy and religion, and African-American studies in 2012. He married his long-time girlfriend Isabella Marie Swan on May 19th of the same year. The couple moved to Dawesonville, Georgia where he pursued graduate work in religious studies at Dawes College and Graduate School. Jackson had completed courses and was working on his dissertation at the time of his death. He has one article published in the _Journal of Religious Ethics_, and another due out in the _Journal for Culture and Religious Theory_ this spring. He has written a personal article about faith and living with epilepsy, published by _Sojourners_ magazine._

_He is survived by his wife, Bella, his mother, Martha, his elder sisters Jada Carson and Rosa Jackson-Wiley, three nieces, and two nephews. A memorial will be held at the Sopes and Sinclair Funeral Home in Dawesonville on Saturday, October 22nd, and a Celebration of his Life at his mother's church, Bethel Evangelical Baptist, in Jacksonville, on Monday, October 24th. He will be buried in Bethel Cemetery, Jacksonville. His wife and family request that no flowers be sent but donations may be made in his memory to the Epilepsy Research Foundation (ERF) or the Jacksonville Faith and Hope Coalition._

Bella thinks Mark would've hated all that, saying it made him sound more special than he was. Yet he _was_ special in Bella's eyes. When the obituary appears in the local paper on Friday, she collects copies and has two laminated for a Memory Book her mother is helping her to make for the funeral.

But that first day, Wednesday, she moves from place to place as directed, talks to people when she has to, and tries to conceal her shock and despair when she discovers the cost of even a simple burial along with transport and preparation of the body. She would have opted for cremation, but doesn't think Martha could bear that. Mark's mother is of an older school wary of cremation; even more, she needs a grave to visit. Yet with all the nickel-and-diming, the cost will run well over 6000, and Mark had no life insurance. A pre-existing condition like epilepsy generated automatic refusal from most companies, or premiums so high the two of them couldn't begin to pay. Martha hasn't much money herself and her congregation is small and poor, but she says they're planning to take up an offering that Sunday to help cover expenses, and Bella knows she can count on her own parents. Her father is only marginally better-off than Martha, but Phil -- and therefore Renee -- has some money. She thinks it will all probably be enough, at least for the short term. She tries not to think about the long term.

So she is more than a little shocked when, on the Friday before the local memorial service, she receives a call from the funeral home informing her that the entire cost of chapel rental, body preparation, casket and transport to Florida have been covered. She blinks and stutters for a moment, and if she had almost forgotten Edward's appearance at the hospital Tuesday night, she recalls it now. "The donor is named Cullen, isn't he?" She tries to sound civil.

"No. No, it's not," the funeral director answers.

"Hale, then."

"No, not Hale, either. Let's see . . . the person who underwrote the cost is a Dr. J. A. Whitlock, professor emeritus at St. Olaf College in Minnesota. A letter of explanation was faxed to the funeral home to be given to you."

Who the hell was J. A. Whitlock? But Bella is mollified, and embarrassed at jumping to conclusions. "Oh," is all she says.

"The letter also contains his address. I'm sure you and the family will want to thank him." It's a subtle and polite rebuke.

"Yes," Bella says. "Yes, of course." She's been saying that a lot over the past few days, agreeing to things from necessity or simple lack of investment. Martha told her once to speak up if there was something she didn't like, but honestly, she doesn't like any of it -- that Mark is dead, that she is once more alone and bereft, even (selfish or not) that his death has completely disrupted her life. But the material from which his casket is constructed, or the color of his headstone, or whether "Blessed Assurance" should be sung versus "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" -- about those things, she could really care less Compared to the magnitude of her loss, they don't matter to her.

She gets through the memorial on Saturday without breaking down once, and wonders if their professors and fellow students think her a cold fish. But she has cried so much over the past week, she simply has no energy left for tears.

On Sunday, she and her bags are loaded into Phil's van. Then all of them head south for what Bella considers Mark's real funeral, one with family and old friends and people who'd known him all his life. When it's over, he will go to rest beside his father, and Bella . . .

Bella will face yet again the task of starting over.

* * *

_**A/N: **Feedback and reviews are da bomb!_

_Again, while Dawes College is fictional, as is the specific organization that Mark volunteered for in Jacksonville, the church, the funeral home and the cemetery mentioned, a few of the other institutions are not. The Epilepsy Research Foundation is quite real, as is historically black Morehouse College in Atlanta. To be a "Morehouse Man" is no small claim to fame, and more than a few political, business and academic leaders are graduates of Morehouse (including Martin Luther King, Jr.) Likewise, St. Olaf's College is a real and prestigious liberal arts school in Minnesota, Lee High School is a real high school in Jacksonville, and all the journals and magazines mentioned are real. If you choked at the cost of a funeral, that's actually (and disturbingly) on the low end. Many can run much more. Last, if iwe/I know who J. A. Whitlock must be, Bella didn't learn Jasper's original name until _Eclipse_. Even if she heard it in passing at some point, with ten years between and little reason to think she'd ever see the Cullens again, it's little wonder if she doesn't recognize it. SMeyer has said that Jasper likes intellectual pursuits, so I'm running with that._

_(Yes, there is a black Baptist church in Jacksonville named Bethel, but my fictional one has a slightly different name and is much smaller.)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Summary:** Bella takes a trip to Florida to try to get her head together.

* * *

After Mark's funeral, Bella spends a week in Jacksonville at Martha's house letting herself be taken care of. She soul searches regarding her future, and has more than a few discussions with Martha. Mark's mother is no pie-in-the-sky sort like Renee can be, but she also isn't a pessimist outright. After all, she lost _her_ husband unexpectedly and survived it, and she has advice for Bella -- some of it frank and unvarnished.

"You don't lock yourself up in that house up there," she says. "Sometimes you might want to, but cutting yourself off . . . that ain't no good. I had three kids and a church on my hands, but I've seen other women -- they shut off. Stay home all the time. It's not fear. It's plain lack of energy. Grieving's hard work, sugar.

"Money'll be the biggest hurdle for a while, too. We'd like to think money don't matter none, but of course it does. Just ask anybody who ain't got enough."

"Mark and I never had enough," Bella protests, "and it didn't matter -- "

"You kids had each other," Martha interrupts. "Not that having a husband necessarily makes it better. Truth is, I've seen poverty break as many marriages as it makes more solid -- just depends. But it's _always_ harder if you don't got nobody there to share the worry with.

"Anyway, what with that good soul who paid for the funeral, you can use the offering money we took up here for rent and food instead. With your own assistantship, it oughtta get you through at least January, won't it?"

"I think so. But I hadn't planned to work next spring because of my comps and orals . . . "

Martha shakes her bright-turbaned head. "We'll get you through those exams, sugar, don't you worry none 'bout that. The _last_ thing Mark woulda wanted is for you to quit. Once those tests are over, you just gotta do a thesis, right?" Bella nods, not bothering to correct Martha's terminology from 'thesis' to 'dissertation.' It's nitpicking, yet her mind seems to focus on small things lately. The big things are too big. "Do you have to stay at Dawes to do it, or could you write somewhere else?"

Bella scrunches up her nose, seeing where Martha is headed. "I won't need the library the way Mark did, no, but it's probably easier to write there. And . . . I'm not sure I could move back in with my mom, Martha."

Martha waves a hand. "I didn't say that, now did I? I'm just asking questions so you know what your options are and you don't keep thinking inside old boxes. Nothing says you gotta come back here, though you know I got room for you if you need it, doncha?" Bella smiles and nods, because Martha would _make_ room . . . and Renee would claim hurt feelings, and pout, and it would be easier for Renee and Phil to support Bella than for Martha to anyway. (That living with Martha would require occasional church participation from Bella, which she's always been a bit uncomfortable with, isn't something she quite admits to herself.)

"You finish up this fall," Martha is saying, "then you focus on them tests, and when they're over, _then_ you can decide what your next step is. We can move you back here if we need to, or you can get yourself a job up there somewhere and work on finishing the writing. But the upshot is you don't gotta make up your mind just yet," Martha finishes.

On Sunday morning, Renee and Phil drive Bella back to Dawesonville to begin adjusting to her new, single life. Fortunately, the class for which she's a teaching assistant is one she's worked in before so the material isn't new to her, even if this professor is. Also fortunately, they'd just _finished_ grading and handing back a stack of papers so the next big exam isn't imminent. She's registered for only one night class herself -- a final grad seminar -- and brought her books with her to Florida so she's not behind on the reading. Yet her advisor, Lorraine Michaels, suggests she drop the seminar and take something else in the spring when she can concentrate better. But that would put off her comps and orals until summer and Bella needs to be finished before then. There are many intense discussions with Lorraine about her future. Lorraine tries to be understanding, but Bella knows she's reluctant to see Bella leave the college and town. "More than half of all ABDs" -- all-but-dissertation students -- "who leave their campuses never finish," she warns. "Real life has a way of eating you alive."

"I understand," Bella says. And she does understand. "But I'm not sure I'm in any position to do otherwise, financially speaking."

Reluctantly, Lorraine nods, then gives a deep sigh. "I'll look around for any job openings where you could get some hands-on experience with programs for women."

"Thank you." That simple promise relaxes Bella enormously; Lorraine is a veritable hub of contacts. Surely she'll hear about something.

"How far away are you willing to go?" Lorraine asks.

"Well, I'd prefer to stay in either the Southeast or the Northwest, just so I can be closer to one parent or the other."

"Okay. I'll put out feelers."

"And I'll stay in the seminar. The paper for it may not be my best work ever, but I really need to finish with courses."

Having at least the possibility of a job -- and one in her field -- on the horizon, as well as a few months' grace with finances, Bella is less desperate and numb than she was. But she still feels depressed and lonely, and sometimes angry. She takes to buying white wine in boxes -- Franzia, Vella, Almaden, whatever's on sale -- and rarely goes to bed before she's had at least three glasses. She doesn't get drunk, or even tipsy (three to four glasses in four to five hours isn't a lot), but it fuzzes her mind and she likes the fuzz. If she worries a little that she'll put on weight, it doesn't stop her. Weight gain is a constant threat, being in the chair. She's fought it since her early 20s. Mark didn't care, in part because Mark had sported a little tummy-tire himself, but other men aren't Mark. "What does it matter anyway?" she asks, pouring herself another glass. "It's not like I'll ever get married again." She is probably wallowing, but not entirely. The statistics aren't on her side as a wheelchair-bound woman.

Taking her wine and one of the books for her seminar back into the living room, she settles down in front of the TV, which is tuned to football on a Saturday. She likes the background noise, although it's funny how she never cared about sports until moving _out_ of Charlie's house. She must have picked up something by osmosis because she actually understands baseball, and learned enough about football from Mark to follow the plays. This match is Michigan-Ohio State, both ranked teams this year and a traditional rivalry too, so it promises to be a good game. She reads and drinks and is occasionally distracted by cheering from the set that indicates an important play.

At halftime, she remembers that she failed to write a check for the cable bill and lays down her book to wheel over to her desk and find the checkbook. While pushing around papers, she finds the faxed letter from J. A. Whitlock that she'd stored there before leaving for Florida with her parents . . . and feels guilty. She'd forgotten _all_ about it -- and after that poor man's totally unlooked for generosity, too. She reads over it again:

_Dear Mrs. Jackson,_

_Just this morning, I received notice of the unexpected passing of your husband. As you are no doubt aware, he was a member of the Center for the Study of Religion and Society, as am I. It is common practice in such professional societies to announce deaths, and in this newfangled age of the internet, we no longer have to await quarterly newsletters for news. While the loss of anyone is sad, it is especially so when that loss involves such a young and promising graduate student._

_I had the privilege to act as a referee for his recent article in the _Journal of Religious Ethics_, a piece that impressed me both for its insight as well as for its shrewd use of new and alternative evidence. (Too many academics try to use alternative evidence but are not as discerning about it as they should be.) And if I did send it back to him with suggestions for improvement, after it was published and anonymity no longer required, I wrote to him again, which led to a pleasant exchange on the topic._

_As an old professor, I am all too aware of the financial burdens borne by young grad students, especially those married to each other. I am also aware of your husband's medical condition. If his comments about it came mostly in passing, epilepsy can complicate insurance, I know._

_I have been financially fortunate with my publications -- party to several encyclopedic works and a textbook or two that left me with more royalties than most academics ever see. Please allow me to share a little of that good fortune in order to alleviate the stress you must be feeling in the wake of your husband's loss. If you love him even half as much as he loved you, given how he spoke of you, you have quite enough to worry about without worrying about paying for a funeral._

_Sincerely,  
J. A. Whitlock  
Professor Emeritus of Religion  
St. Olaf College_

It is, she thinks, surprisingly _chatty_ even while being rather proper in tone. But if he's an emeritus prof, he's probably old. She starts to write back, fishing out actual stationary where it's buried near the bottom of a desk drawer. "Dear Dr. Whitlock," she begins, "I must apologize that it's taken me so long to reply . . ." But she pauses there, deciding she should find out more about his relationship with Mark.

She fetches Mark's laptop to check old emails. This isn't the first time she's been into his computer since his death. It was necessary to get his affairs in order, and she's lost both her embarrassment at doing it as well as her fear that she'll discover something she'd really rather not know. Bookmarked porn is the worst of it, and once she got over the mild shock, she was mostly amused. Was there a male on the planet with internet access who hadn't either been to or tried to access a porn site?

Some of his bookmarks she can't open because she lacks those particular passwords but they're minor things. She can't read his online subscription to _The New York Times_, for instance. But most of his files aren't password protected and of necessity, the college gave her access to his email account. It's here that she looks first for any mail from J. A. Whitlock. There is none. So she checks his non-university email, but there's nothing there either. How strange. Had they written letters by post? That seemed very unlike Mark who'd lived even more wired than Bella is. He'd only resorted to hand writing anything when he absolutely had to.

But if he _had_ written to Whitlock on paper, he'd have the letters filed somewhere. He'd been a terrible packrat. Most had been boxed and stored for her to go through later when she was ready -- but not his academic things. His advisor Dr. Simmons seemed to think Mark's recent work had at least one more potential paper in it, and wanted to edit it for publication as a tribute to his memory. Bella thought that very kind, but is glad now for other reasons as she pulls out those boxes to search them. She finds a number of things, including the refereed, corrected copies of the very article Whitlock had mentioned. The corrected copies aren't signed, of course -- the identities of referees were traditionally kept anonymous -- so she wasn't sure which of them came from Whitlock, but there were no additional letters in the folder beyond ones from the journal editor.

How odd. Bella wasn't necessarily suspicious so much as puzzled. So she did what any self-respecting child of the communication age would do -- she got online to look up J. A. Whitlock.

He was, indeed, a professor emeritus at St. Olaf's, and he did, indeed, have quite an extensive list of publications, including the textbooks and encyclopedias he'd mentioned. But he specialized in the westward expansion of protestantism in the U.S., and the Great Awakening on the American Plains -- not a topic close to Mark's area of research. Why on earth would Whitlock be vetting Mark's paper? Either the journal had been desperate (which did sometimes happen), or . . .

Or what? She's gone from curious to paranoid, she thinks. This Whitlock is who he'd said he is; he apparently knew Mark and thought highly of him -- a lot of people did. So what if she couldn't find any letters? They probably _had_ corresponded by email and Mark had just deleted them later. A packrat he might have been, but even Mark hadn't kept everything.

She puts back the papers and returns to writing her thank-you note. She keeps it simple and mails it the next day. And that is the end of that.

Except it isn't. She can't stop thinking about it, and a casual remark to Jeffery Simmons only makes it worse. "J. A. Whitlock?" he asks. "_Jasper Whitlock_ at St. Olaf's paid for the funeral? Holy Moley! I didn't even know Mark had met him."

Bella blinks, stumbling for an instant over the first name.

Jasper.

Nowhere in her online searches had she seen a first name, just the initials. Surely it's coincidence. The man clearly existed and wasn't a front, and from the sound of it was even some sort of Grand Old Man in the field who everybody had heard of. There was no way a vampire who looked in his early 20s could fake that, and if Jasper might not be the most common of names, it wasn't _that_ uncommon. She wouldn't have given it a second thought had Edward not shown up at the hospital the night Mark had died.

But Edward had shown up there. "You know Dr. Whitlock?" she asks.

"Well, I don't _know_ him, but I certainly know OF him."

"And he's a real person?" Simmons blinks and Bella realizes how ridiculous that must sound. "I mean, well . . . I just mean I've never heard Mark mention him, is all. Usually when he met somebody interesting, he told me." In fact, Mark had been irrepressible about stuff like that, acting just like a little kid who'd talked to Santa Claus.

Simmons shrugs, apparently unconcerned. "Probably met him at a conference."

_Probably_, Bella thinks, and lets it go.

Except, again, she can't. Mark just hadn't _been_ to many conferences -- only two, and one of those no further away than Emory University in Atlanta; it was all they could afford. It would be easy to check the presenters at those conferences, wouldn't it?

So she checks. There is no Whitlock. Of course, as he had money to burn and didn't need his department to pay for his trip, he might just have come to listen, not present -- nonetheless. It has begun to really _bother_ Bella that she can't pin down when or how Mark would have met him . . . and his name was Jasper. So she searches Mark's computer more thoroughly, looking for email she might have missed in her first try. She finds some archived folders in Lotus Notes, most containing student complaints of one type or another, or library notices of research materials, or procedural letters relating to his degree -- nothing exciting. But there is one folder that's password protected. All it says is "confidential." Common sense tells her it is likely just more student email, yet, yet . . . He already _had_ that folder of student email. Why make a second?

She tries a couple of his favorite passwords that she happens to know -- none work. Giving up with a sigh, she shuts off his computer. This is ridiculous. Why would Mark have letters from some retired religion professor in a folder marked "confidential" anyway? She really has to give up these suspicions.

But she just _can't_. The more she thinks about it all, the more confused she becomes and the more suspicious. What had Edward Cullen been doing in _Dawesonville_ on the night Mark had died? She hadn't heard anything from the Cullens for a decade, yet Edward suddenly appeared out of the blue on that exact night to drive her home and clean her kitchen? It made no sense. Then just a few days after, some old professor of religion Mark had never mentioned -- and didn't seem to have any correspondence with -- paid several thousand dollars for his burial? She is no wide-eyed, naive seventeen-year-old girl anymore; she's a trained scholar in her own right and these things do not add up. There is a larger story here, even if she might not be able to see yet what it is. She'll figure it out.

She decides to go to the Information and Technology Center the next afternoon to ask them to give her access to Mark's locked mail folder. As it's his student account, they should. She has power of attorney if she needs to wave it (which so far she hasn't), but she'll just explain she needs to retrieve some student letters for a professor he'd TAed for. That ought to be good enough.

The next day after her own office hours end, she makes certain Mark's laptop is in her pack, then prepares to exit when a knock comes on her office door. "Office hours are over," she calls. She really doesn't want to deal with a student right now.

"It'll only take a minute!" returns a high-pitched voice from the other side.

Great, a whiny daddy's princess used to getting her own way. There are a lot of them here at Dawes. It's that sort of school. "Come in!" she calls back, fearing her irritation isn't very well hidden.

The door opens and Bella gasps.

Alice Cullen stands on the other side, wearing a tentative smile. "Hello, Bella. Long time, no see." She looks, of course, exactly the same as ten years ago, just like her brother had.

Jasper appears behind her, then steps past into Bella's office to offer Bella his hand. "J. A. Whitlock, I presume?" Bella asks, taking it.

He cracks a grin. "You presume correctly, Madam Holmes. Alice said last night you were about to figure it all out, so we decided the hell with it, and came down here to save you the trouble."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the cliffie! (Well, not really; we authors are cruel like that. Ha.) I hope you're enjoying the story so far and thank you to everybody who's reviewed or commented. I read and reply to each one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** And let's hear from Alice!

* * *

She's changed a lot.

As soon as Alice thinks that, however, she recognizes how silly it is. Of course Bella has changed; humans do that. The fact Alice hasn't seen her in person in ten years just makes the changes more evident. But Alice knew what to expect, has seen pictures of Bella since her accident, even since her marriage. She knew her hair is short now, and that she's no longer a waif-slim teenager; Bella looks like a woman, not a girl. But in person, Alice can see there's just a hint of salty-gray in her dark hair at the temples, and there's a permanent line in her forehead from frowning too much. Her skin isn't as smooth. But she doesn't look especially old either. She lives in that indeterminate place that could pass for early 20s or early 30s.

Slipping into Bella's office after Jasper, Alice closes the door. Jasper has seated himself in a chair Bella has there for students. Alice props herself on Bella's desk. Neither makes a move to embrace her, unsure how it would be received. Bella is looking back and forth between them, lips pursed. "How the hell did you pull it off?" she asks Jasper. "J. A. Whitlock is a real person."

It isn't the direction Alice expected her questioning to take. She might have seen that Bella was well on the way to putting two and two together -- and that Edward had underestimated her once again -- but there had been many ways this re-meeting could have gone. Alice had expected her to ask different questions -- more personal ones.

But Jasper laughs. "Of course he is. He's me."

"He can't be. You're not some seventy-something retired professor."

"Oh, I'm much older than that," Jasper assures her.

She is frowning. "But you really published all that stuff . . . ?"

"Yes, I did." He glances at Alice. "Remember, we don't sleep. Writing gives me something to occupy the extra hours."

"He's prolific," Alice adds.

Bella glances at her, then turns back to Jasper. Her face is unreadable. Alice wonders what Jasper is feeling from her. Perhaps he's working to keep her calm but Alice doesn't think so. Jasper prefers not to interfere with people's emotions unless he needs to, and Alice is struck again by how much _older_ Bella seems. "So how _did_ you pull it off?" Bella asks.

Grinning, Jasper leans the chair back on its rear legs and crosses his arms. Alice knows he's rather proud of becoming the internationally known religion scholar, J. A. Whitlock. "It wasn't long after Alice and I joined the Cullens, so I was new to this life. The family moved to Minnesota, Alice and Edward decided to do the high school thing, but Emmet, Rosalie and I opted for college, they as undergrads, me as a grad student. I'd been reading for years, spent a lot of nights haunting libraries long before I met Alice."

"What he means is that he blew through his grad program in record time," Alice says, smiling down fondly at him. "The young hot-shot. Five-and-a-half years to a Ph.D."

Jasper ignores her gloating. "St. Olaf happened to have an opening a little south of where we were living, so I applied. They took me. It's tricky getting a tenure-track job because it's not just what you've done, but _who_ you know -- as I'm sure you're aware." Bella nods. "I couldn't just show up with faked documents, even if I had the knowledge to justify them. I'd never get hired, especially not at a place like that. I needed letters of rec, people who could vouch for me . . . everything just came together. The religion department was suitably impressed, and I got the job. I went on a rapid publication binge and applied for promotion early, before tenure."

"You can't -- "

"Yes you can," Jasper corrected. "It's not common, but you can get promotion before tenure. So I became an associate professor. The next year, I went up for tenure, and got that early too. It all took about five years instead of six, and like Alice said, I'd spent five before on the degree. Now, ten years is usually about as long as we dare to stay anywhere, but this was a special case. So we came up with a plan."

"You and Edward came up with a plan," Alice corrects, grinning and bumping his back with her leg.

"Well, okay, Edward and I came up with a plan. I have something of an advantage. I was turned at twenty, and looked a little older than that anyway. It's actually harder for me to pass for my late teens than for my late twenties."

"I remember," Bella says. "At Forks High, there was speculation that you'd failed a grade or two. Amusing -- considering."

Jasper's smile is thin. "I hate pretending to be a high school student. Anyway, we decided to see if I could get a full professorship before I was forty -- well, before J. A. Whitlock was forty."

Bella's eyebrows shoot up. She has enough experience now to realize how unusual that is.

"In a major university, it would've been harder if not impossible, but whatever her reputation, St. Olaf is still a liberal arts college focused on teaching more than research. With my extra time, I was able to keep pumping out articles and monographs, and even a textbook. My colleagues hated me -- "

"They did not," Alice says.

He turns to look up at her. "Yes, they did. They called me a one-man cottage industry in publishing -- and didn't mean it as a compliment. Anyway, I didn't much care. I had one goal -- get that title. The textbook, luckily, made a big splash and I got decent royalties. I'd already put it about that I'd inherited money. The RPT committee was wavering when I went up for full professor at only 38. It would mean another salary jump. But with my list of publications, some of them pretty well received -- "

"_Very_ well received," Alice corrects.

Jasper ignores her. " -- they had a hard time justifying turning me down, even though there were others up that same year, all older than me, some by ten years or more. So I let it be known that I was considering going on partial retirement so I could continue to write, if I got the promotion. That did it. They gave it to me, and I was as good as my word. I went half-time. By this point, it took make-up to fake my 'advancing age.'" He makes air-quotes around it. "Being blond made that easier at least; you can pretend your gray is hiding. But I had to look like I was in my late thirties or early forties, which required make-up every morning. Fortunately, Alice is good at that." He pats her knee and she grins. "Thus, I managed to make it to _twenty_ years under a single identity before retiring completely, accepting my emeritus status, and disappearing into the Minnesota wilds to fish and write."

Bella has listened to this tale with great interest, bent forward in her chair, elbows on knees, head turned slightly. Alice watches her process it. "All right," she says finally. "That explains the how -- but not the why. It's a lot of trouble to go to just for a title."

"But useful," Jasper says. "J. A. Whitlock has a verifiable, traceable history and reputation. Money talks, but sometimes the family needs a solid identity with legs for a situation where someone might give it more than a cursory glance."

"Like with me," Bella says, sitting up to cross her arms.

"Well, sort of. Edward seemed to think you'd buy it. Alice and I were more dubious."

"Edward thinks I'm stupid?"

"No," Alice breaks in. "Edward thought you were distracted. And you were -- for a while. I knew -- well, I'd seen -- that whether it worked or not would depend on how much thought you gave to it."

"It was not being able to find any letters," Bella admits, looking right at Jasper. "That clued me in that you didn't really know Mark and hadn't read his paper."

"But I did read his paper," Jasper says, grinning like a cat into cream. "I wasn't lying about that."

Bella uncrosses her arms. "You did?"

"Absolutely."

"Why? You're not even in his field!"

"It was pure chance. The journal contacted me because I do a lot of vetting for them now that I'm 'retired.' They were having trouble finding somebody suitable to referee his paper because it was unusual. I agreed and was genuinely impressed by what he'd done. If pretty clearly a paper by a young scholar -- he didn't shore up some of his arguments as well as he should have -- it was still very good. I sent back some suggestions, including more sources I thought would strengthen his case. When the article came out, I found he'd taken most of my corrections to produce a really solid piece of work. Now keep in mind I didn't know who this was when I first read it, so imagine my surprise when the name on the article was 'Mark J. Jackson.'"

Bella frowns, and it's clear she doesn't follow why this matters. Jasper glances over his shoulder at Alice. Here it came. Alice nods and Jasper turns back. "I knew -- we knew -- he was your husband."

Bella's frown has deepened. "You knew." It's not really a question.

"Yes."

There is a moment of silence. Alice can hear Bella's heartbeat. It has sped up slightly. "Just how _much_ did you know -- do you know?"

Alice wiggles on the desk and scoots a few inches closer to Bella. "Don't be angry -- "

"Just answer the damn question!"

"We know pretty much everything," Jasper admits. "And we finally got tired of letting Edward tell us what to do about the knowing." He and Alice await the explosion. It isn't long in coming.

* * *

**A/N:** RPT reappointment, promotion and tenure: the hell committee for every young professor.

There will probably be a delay before more chapters come out, as the holiday weekend is over. This part gives a little explanation but, of course, there's more to come.

**I hope y'all are enjoying it. Please let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who's kindly reviewed so far!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes:** Bella's ... a little upset. :-)

* * *

"Exactly _how_ do you know 'pretty much everything,' as you put it? More to the point -- why would you care?"

It's not a shout -- more a cold snap. Her rage has been building slowly. At first, and despite her suspicions, she was too shocked at seeing Alice and Jasper again in the flesh to be angry, so her natural curiosity got the better of her. She'd always been like that, even as a teenager. Instead of running in the opposite direction from any hint of the supernatural, she'd made an impromptu online search for information about vampires. Even then, she'd had the soul of a researcher. Likewise now, her all-consuming curiosity claimed center stage while her emotions took time to process the complexity. But the shock is peeling back finally to reveal something raw and bloody underneath.

At her question, Alice and Jasper exchange yet another glance, then Alice says -- almost cautiously -- "Bella, we never wanted to leave in the first place . . . "

"Then why did you? I thought you were my friend."

"Edward insisted -- "

"Are you Edward's whipping girl?"

Alice drops her eyes and, uncharacteristically, Jasper doesn't come to her defense, but drops his too. "After . . . what happened . . . at your birthday party," Jasper says, "we both wondered if Edward might not have a point."

"A point?" she asks. "I thought his only point was that he'd lost interest. He said vampires are 'easily distracted.' And Jasper, I told you at the time I wasn't angry with you. What part of, 'I'm not angry,' was unclear?"

They are still shamefaced. "We didn't know -- then -- everything Edward told you," Alice says. "He didn't . . . he didn't lie -- he just didn't tell the whole truth."

"Stop defending him," Jasper tells her, his mouth thin. "I supported his choice at the time because I didn't _have_ the whole truth . . . but that's still a form of lying. It almost got Bella killed."

Bella blinks. "You mean the accident? I admit jumping off the cliff was a stupid move on my part, but I was just young and melodramatic, not trying to kill myself -- "

"No," Jasper cuts her off. "Victoria."

And _there_ is a name Bella hasn't heard in almost a decade, but she isn't confused, even momentarily, about who Jasper means. "Victoria," she repeats softly. "I remember. But she disappeared shortly after the accident. Jake -- Jacob Black, an old friend -- would never admit to it because he didn't want to worry me, but I'm pretty sure the wolves took care of her. Remember the Quileute werewolves Carlisle made that treaty with? There was a new generation of them."

"We know," Jasper says.

"Anyway, yeah -- I assumed they killed her like they killed Laurent."

Jasper is shaking his head although Alice remains still and silent in that way only a vampire can achieve. "The wolves took care of Laurent -- as you know," Jasper says. "But we took care of Victoria."

"'We' who, exactly?"

"Edward, Emmet, Rosalie, Alice and I. We found out what was going on after your accident -- "

"I saw it," Alice said, shuddering. "I saw you jump . . . then I saw you in the hospital. It was during Cornell's spring break. That's where we went when we left Forks: Ithaca. For spring break, we went up to visit Tanya's coven in Denali -- I saw it while there."

"Alice and I got on a plane right away and to hell with Edward's orders," Jasper adds. "Esme and Carlisle were on a hunting trip, but Tanya promised to tell them as soon as they got back. At the time, Rosalie and Emmett were on yet _another_ honeymoon in Europe, and Edward . . . "

"Edward was in South America," Alice says. "It took a while to get in touch with him; he wasn't answering his phone. In any case, Jasper and I got there first. Your werewolf friends met us before we could even get inside the hospital doors and _informed_ us as to what had been going on -- with you and with Victoria -- and told us we weren't welcome. We realized that by leaving, we'd actually put you in worse danger, left your protection to _werewolves_." Alice spits out the name.

Bella bristles. "Those _werewolves_ were -- and still _are_ -- my staunch friends. They stayed beside me and supported me in everything that came after."

The other two are back to mollified expressions. Jasper recovers first. "Touché," he says. "But the point remains that originally, we left to protect you and it wound up doing the opposite. By the time Edward arrived, he was frantic, and we started the hunt for Victoria -- "

"Waitaminute, waitaminute," Bella interrupts as her brain catches up with her ears. "You left to _protect_ me? I told you, Edward left because he was bored with me!"

"No," Alice says. Her voice is soft but firm. She meets and holds Bella's eyes. Her own are dark -- pale brown instead of the usual amber -- and serious. There is none of the playfulness in her expression that Bella recalls and associates with her. "I suppose Jasper is right, I shouldn't defend Edward and his follies. He _didn't_ tell us the whole truth, and he lied to you -- on a grand scale."

"He lied to me," Bella repeats. It's less a question than trying on the idea for size.

"Absolutely," Alice says with a sharp nod of her head. "Edward wasn't bored with you, Bella. He loved you, and leaving you tore him up. But he believed it in _your_ best interest."

"He did, did he?" Bella practically snarls it.

"He left -- _we_ left -- because of what happened at your birthday party -- "

"I _told_ you I wasn't angry -- "

"We KNOW," Alice cuts her off. "And we believed you. Jasper felt horrible" -- Jasper is nodding -- "but we did believe you when you said you weren't angry and wouldn't hold it against us. But it was never about you being angry or not. It was about trying to keep you safe from _us_. Bella, we're _dangerous_. I'm not sure you ever fully understood that." Bella grinds her teeth, but doesn't interrupt again. "We adored you; you were a breath of fresh air we all needed badly -- Edward most of all. But it made us . . . uncareful. We forgot we could kill you in an instant."

"So you left."

"So we left."

Bella is _boiling_ now. "And not a single one of you thought to ask my opinion?"

"We knew what you'd say -- you weren't scared of us -- and you'd _mean_ it from the bottom of your heart. But it still didn't change anything. Being around us was potentially deadly for you. We just didn't realize that in leaving, we were opening you up to an even greater danger in Victoria. We feel . . . so incredibly badly about that. But we took care of it. We owed you that much. It took us almost eight months to pin her down, but we succeeded."

Bella is rubbing the back of her neck. She can feel a tension headache coming on. She's quite sure Jasper is aware of her fury, but he's making no attempt to stem it. "Thank you," she says. "I appreciate that you went after Victoria. But I do _not_ appreciate that you decided to make decisions about my life for me from the lofty pinnacle of your vampire _wisdom_."

"Bella -- "

"Shut up, Alice. You've had your say. Now let me have mine. Honestly, at that point in my life, I _was_ young, idealistic, and completely inexperienced in relationships. Edward was my first boyfriend ever. I fell head-over-heels for him. But what I am . . . _furious_ about" -- her voice breaks, she's so angry -- "is that not a one of you were _honest_ about why you left. You had to lie to me, talk down to me -- PATRONIZE me. You say you were a danger to me. All right -- you were; I can see that now. But so was dating and then marrying a black man. Do you know I've had people spit at me? I've had white people here in North Georgia say things like, 'Remember O.J.' And I've had black people insult me in Jacksonville, call me a man-stealer. It's entirely possible that somebody, at some point, might have taken it beyond spittle and name-calling -- actually caused me physical harm. Not likely, but possible. It didn't matter; I loved Mark and by-golly, I wasn't inclined to let somebody else's prejudices dictate who I could love."

She eyes them both. Alice starts to protest again, but Jasper squeezes her knee to silence her. Despite her anger at them both, Bella is grateful.

"I recognize that I could've pricked my goddamn finger and brought about my own death with your family. I recognized it then, actually. But you can't live your life in fear. At some point, you have to say, 'This is what I want,' and go after it regardless. I'll take _reasonable_ precautions, but I'm not going to run scared. And I resent it -- a LOT -- when somebody else presumes to make MY choices for me. I'm not your _pet_."

Bella pauses to catch her breath. The more she's talked, the angrier she's become. Alice looks unhappy, as if she'd like to argue more, but Jasper is -- interestingly -- nodding. "That's fair," he says. "And I can't say you're wrong. I think, in a lot of ways, you _were_ our pet."

"Jasper!" Alice explodes, smacking him upside the head. The impact sounds like rock hitting rock. It's clear she doesn't just object, she's honestly annoyed and Bella realizes this is the first time she's seem them argue when it wasn't just in fun. "**I** never considered Bella my pet! She's not an animal!"

He sighs and turns to stare up at her where she still sits on Bella's desk. "I'm not calling her one. But she _was_ a novelty to us; can you deny it?"

"That didn't make her a pet!"

"No, it didn't. But we coddled her." Jasper looks back at Bella. "Compared to us, you were young. You still are, to be fair, but . . . it's not the same. You're an adult now in a way you weren't then. I wasn't sure, at the time, Edward even had any business dating you in the first place -- except HE'S still young too in many ways. But to the rest of us, you seemed . . . well, yeah -- young."

It's clear he's struggling not to insult her. "I was a child, Jasper. It's all right; you can say it. Well, not a child, but I still had a lot of growing up to do. I know that now. I know I _still_ have growing up to do, but the difference between 17 and 27 is that I can admit it."

He inclines his head. "Exactly. It was your age that blurred the lines for us between concern and patronizing, I think. As you just said, you weren't fully an adult yet, and after what happened with James, I think the incident with . . . me . . . was a 'last straw' event. There'd already been a good deal of discussion -- even outright argument when it came to Edward and Rosalie -- about the dangers we were putting you in. Edward had -- has -- _issues_ with being a vampire anyway, and Rosalie knows how to play the guilt card against him."

"Nor was Rosalie especially fond of me," Bella adds.

"That wasn't it," Jasper says even as Alice takes up the story, "There was a lot of unease in the family that you weren't aware of back then. After we caught Victoria, after you were out of danger and had moved to Jacksonville with your mom . . . well . . . the family fell into frequent quarreling."

"The proverbial fit hit shan, she's trying to say," Jasper finishes for her. "Everything came unglued. Emmett and Rosalie eventually left to live on their own -- probably permanently. Carlisle felt horrible for not standing up to Edward, and he and Esme had several rows about it -- which turned into rows about them being 'parents' . . . which turned into rows about Carlisle's choices in even starting the family in the first place. Carlisle moved out, although none of us think that's permanent. He and Esme just need some space right now."

Bella knows her jaw is hanging open, but she's too stunned to speak.

"Esme and Edward still share a house in Helen, pretending to be siblings," Alice says. "Carlisle has been working in Africa for the past six years. Jasper and I . . . we stay in touch with all of them, but we've been living in our Minnesota house, the same one we had when Jasper worked at St. Olaf, ironically enough."

"I . . . the family broke up because of me?"

"No!" Alice says. "Heavens, no, Bella!"

"There've been cracks in the surface for a long time now," Jasper agrees. "Things nobody really wanted to talk about -- just kept burying. Vampires are very good at maintaining a polite status quo. Given my . . . talent . . . however, I'm usually aware of what doesn't get talked about."

"All this did was bring those festering issues to the surface," Alice adds, nodding.

Bella rubs the bridge of her nose. "I guess that did sound a bit egotistical, didn't it? As if I were that all-fired important."

Jasper just shakes his head. "We knew what you meant. But the split was probably inevitable. Esme and Carlisle have been struggling with the 'play parents' issue for a while. This forced them to recognize it as a constructed reality -- easier for Carlisle to admit than Esme, I think -- or even for Edward. But the truth is, we were all guilty. The face we showed the world had started to become a grand make-believe game -- we were living our own roles. It was easy, it was convenient, but even more, it filled needs we each had. All of a sudden, the masks got ripped away and we were dealing with each other _authentically_ for the first time in decades. In the long run, that's better, and if we come together again as a coven -- and we might -- it'll be by deliberate choice, and as a _coven_, not as a mock-family."

Bella doesn't reply for a while. She's trying to process what they've just told her. Her shrine to an ideal has come crashing down, a shrine she hadn't even realized she still kept pristine. After all she's seen and experienced, she should know there are no perfect families, just those that are more or less healthy in their dysfunctions. Had she really thought the Cullens immune? Seven vampires -- none of them actually related -- stuck frozen in time and living together for ages? The real surprise here, she thinks, is that they managed to last as long as they did.

"All right," she says after several minutes of silence. "But none of that explains why the hell you've been stalking my life since you left, or what made you think you had the right to decide what was best for me back then." Alice and Jasper tilt their heads at almost exactly the same angle, their questions evident in their expressions. If the situation were less serious, Bella would laugh. "Like I said -- it's patronizing."

The shame is back in their faces, but a bit of stubbornness too. "Do you think -- now -- that you were really old enough then to make life-altering decisions?" Jasper asks her. "You wanted to become a _vampire_, Bella. That's forever -- and I mean FOREVER. Yet as long as you remained human, we were enormously dangerous to you. We didn't want to turn you, but we were afraid to stay near you -- and you weren't ready to acknowledge either truth. The problem with teenagers is that they think they're ready to make decisions they're not ready to make, and all the reasoning in the world won't change their minds. Only time and experience can do that."

Bella wants to argue with him, but he has a point. She can look back now at her seventeen-year-old self and see just how little she'd really known of the world. Mature for her age she might have been, but some things are learned only by living a little. "There's still something . . . I don't know -- _wrong_ here. I admit, I didn't know then what I was getting myself into, but I wasn't a kid either. I know you're all decades, even _centuries_ older than me. But I shouldn't have been lied to like that."

"No," Alice says, and her voice is soft. "No, you shouldn't. I honestly believe Edward meant well, but like Jasper said, sometimes _he's_ young, too. He made a stupid choice. We're vampires, not saints." She gives Bella tiny smile. "We make mistakes frequently. Edward just sometimes . . . "

". . . has a God complex?" Jasper asks. Alice smacks him again, but this time, there's more in it of fondness than anger. "Admit it," Jasper says. "He reads minds, so it inclines him to get snooty."

"All right, all right." Alice looks at Bella. "As you can see, it wasn't just Edward and Rosalie who struck sparks sometimes."

"At least Edward and I are still talking."

"Edward and Rosalie aren't even talking?" Bella asks.

"Nope," Alice replies. "Rose is acting like a martyr and Edward is acting all angsty and misunderstood. They're both just being pig-headed idiots is what they're being."

It abruptly strikes Bella that Jasper and Alice _are_ treating her differently now, more as an equal. Ten years ago, they'd have tried to downplay or conceal these things, the same as parents don't always tell their children the whole nasty truth about adult dynamics.

"But," Jasper says now, pulling the conversation off yet another tangent, "the upshot of it is that Edward never stopped caring, Bella. I think he fell more in love with you _after_ he left you than he'd ever been before."

"So why didn't he come back and say so? Why have all of you stayed away until _now_?"

"Because of Mark Jackson," Jasper says. "You'd already met him by the time we'd caught and eliminated Victoria."

"I saw," Alice adds, "that you and Mark had a very good chance of falling in love. And as much of an ass as Edward can be, he also has a genuine selfless streak."

"He didn't want you stuck with this life for all eternity when it wasn't an otherwise life-or-death choice," Jasper adds gently. "He loved you, Bella -- he loved you enough to walk away and let you fall in love with somebody else. Call him an idiot, call him a martyr with issues, but he wanted you to be happy and whole, and he thought Mark could give you that better than he could."

Alice and Jasper fall silent as Bella chews this over. She's reached an age where she's not that impressed by romantic tragedies; there's enough tragedy of the common kind in real life. Nonetheless, she also can't say that Edward's decision hasn't worked out best. At first, she'd believed in her desperate, all-consuming young love for him, but as the years passed, she came to realize there is room for more than one grand and earnest love in a lifetime. She'd loved Mark with all her heart; he'd been both good to her and good for her. Even so, a little of that romantic girl with the wild passion shaking her gut remains deep down inside her, and a first love is hard to forget. She's touched by Edward's choice, even as she can't decide if it was the most mature thing he's ever done, or the most melodramatic.

She's so sunk in this internal debate in fact that she almost misses Alice's quiet words to Jasper: "We should feed her; it's after 6:30 already. And the rest of the story . . . Edward should tell it."

Her ears perk up. "What? What do you mean, 'the rest of the story'? There's more?"

Alice sighs and nods. "There's more," she admits. "But this really is Edward's to tell."

"We only came down," Jasper explains, "to twist his arm by putting him in a spot he'll have to tell instead of sulking up in Helen with Esme, helping her restore Bavarian Alpine houses for tourists. He believes he's keeping promises -- some of them made to Mark Jackson. Truth is, he's scared."

If much of what she's just heard has left her boggled, or at least surprised, nothing has prepared her for that. "Promises he made to Mark?"

"Oh, yes," Jasper confirms even as Alice takes out her phone and exits Bella's office so she can, presumably, call Edward. "Let's go get you some dinner," Jasper says. "It'll take Edward about an hour and a half to get here."

"Helen's two hours . . . "

"This _is_ Edward we're talking about," Jasper replies with a grin.

* * *

**A/N:** Helen, Georgia is known for their Bavarian/alpine architecture and tourism. I suspect Esme would adore the town.

**I hope y'all are enjoying it. Please let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who's kindly reviewed so far!  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Part Summary:** Edward's feeling like he's got his back against the wall ...

* * *

_What the hell gave them the right?_ is the first thing Edward thinks when he flips his cell phone closed. The second is how quickly can he get hold of Esme to borrow her Mercedes convertible? And not because he wants the style. He just wants the speed.

She's downtown on location with her current job -- the revamp of an old German restaurant here in Helen. It was bought out by, of all things, a wealthy Indian family from Atlanta who hadn't known quite what to do with their latest investment when it came to decor. Shiva and saris didn't work with wiener schnitzel. Enter Esme. She suggested white, lacy carved wooden accents, the familiar Bauernmalerei peasant art of flowers and birds, and flower boxes filled with geraniums, German statice and coxcomb below painted faux-windows looking out on imaginative German landscapes. The new owners had just asked 'how much?' and she went to work.

It's well after sunset when Edward gets there, but of course Esme prefers to work late so she doesn't have to worry about the sun. Amusingly, her argument for her odd hours is that she "likes to sleep late." He barges in on her while she's mulling over trim patterns. "I need your car," he blurts at the same time she looks up, raising two different trim samples to ask, "Too busy?" She laughs; he doesn't, and she sobers. "Alice and Jasper talked to Bella," he says. "I need your car. I need to get to Dawesonville as fast as I can."

She stares at him. "I thought they were in Northfield?" Minnesota.

"They flew down this morning. Alice is micro-managing again. She told me if I'm not there in three hours, she and Jasper will tell Bella about my relationship with Mark. They've already told her everything else."

Esme drops her eyes and Edward can hear her worried thoughts. "Did they tell her about . . . about Carlisle and I?"

"I don't know; I assume so."

"I got a letter from him this morning -- well, email. He's doing well, he says. He could come back to the States for the holidays -- if we want him to come."

"It's up to him," Edward replies with a shrug. His feigned in indifference truly _is_ feigned, but he can't say whether he wants to see Carlisle or not -- which is why he pretends indifference. "Can I have your keys?"

Esme fishes them out of her pocket and tosses them to him. He tosses her his. "I parked in the rear lot," he says as he sprints out the door. "I'm not sure when I'll be home."

"Call me!" she orders as the door slams behind him.

He is halfway to Dawesonville before he realizes he forgot his _wallet_. "Scatterbrained idjit," he scolds himself, but supposes he can be forgiven, considering. His stomach is clenched, and if he could sweat, he would be. His mind spins, though he tries to focus on scanning the road ahead for Georgia State Troopers looking to make a traffic-ticket quota. But really, he's planning ways he can murder Alice and Jasper.

Alice is interfering again. He used to find her amusing, his favorite sister, but now just sees her as a meddler. This is none of her business. Or at least, it's not her right to fly down here and stick in her nose -- and he wonders how much of that owes to Jasper. Jasper and Rosalie had been the most angry with him following Bella's accident and the hunt for Victoria. Alice had been more forgiving, but also more inclined to intrude. Edward wishes he hadn't needed to contact Jasper about using J. A. Whitlock to foot the bill for Mark's funeral -- although to be fair, Jasper and Alice had practically pounced on the opportunity. They'd both loved Bella, whatever their reservations and irritations when it came to Edward's relationship with her, and it was Alice who'd begged most down the years for pictures of and reports about Bella. She'd even gone to Bella's wedding -- although Bella hadn't known it. Edward . . . Edward had regretted the inability of vampires to get blitzed that day.

It is almost eight o'clock and quite chilly by the time Edward roars into the parking lot of Bella's apartment building. He immediately spots what he assumes to be Alice and Jasper's rental. The royal-blue Porsche Cayman stands out like a sore thumb among the specialized handicapped vans and other vehicles. Trust Alice to fly into Atlanta so she can get a luxury car. He'd think her as shallow as a spring puddle if he didn't know her better.

He bursts out of Esme's Mercedes, barely remembering to raise the top, before he's knocking on the door to Bella's place. He can already hear their thoughts, and -- indeed -- Alice is at the door, opening it before the second knock lands. She gives him a bright smile. "Hello, Edward. Jasper and I were just leaving." Both of them slide out past him, though Jasper grips his arm as he passes.

Edward can hear Jasper's pointed thought: _It had to be done. You were dragging your heels. Now get in there and tell her the whole truth. We'll be back by morning. Alice has missed her something fierce, and I think she's missed Alice, too._

Edward wants to growl and grind his teeth, but can't. The thought is neither self-satisfied nor vicious. They're busybodies, but they're honest about it, and he's reminded -- yet again -- how absolutely perfectly they fit each other, like bookends, no matter how different they might appear to the eye.

He sighs and steps into Bella's apartment. It smells like a Hardee's roast beef sandwich. Couldn't Alice and Jasper have treated her to something better than fast food? Although Bella probably refused anything fancy. She's waiting with one eyebrow raised, her hands folded in front of her, elbows resting on the arms of her wheelchair. "Hello, Bella," he says softly.

Her lips thin. "Let's cut the niceties. Jasper and Alice implied that you made promises to Mark. What the _fuck_ were you doing talking to my husband, and why didn't he tell me?"

Edward blinks at her no-nonsense tone. If he knows exactly how take-charge Bella has become, he's nonetheless taken aback to have all that force of will aimed at _him_. Nervous, he runs a hand into his hair. "Can you, ah, tell me what Alice and Jasper already told you so I'm not just repeating things?"

"They said you lied about why you left -- that you did it not because you'd lost interest in me, but to 'protect' me." Her voice is full of acid. "They told me about the hunt for Victoria after my accident, and that by the time you'd finished her, I'd met Mark, so you didn't tell me the truth then either because you'd made promises to him. Just where the _hell_ do you men get off, deciding what the women in your lives need to know?"

Even without reading her mind, he can feel the absolute _chill_ in the air and he can hear the pound of her angry heart. Realizing he's still standing just inside her front door, he gestures to the living room. "Can we, ah, go in there?"

Bella spins her chair with precision and rolls a few feet to a spot that must be hers, a cleared area where a matching chair to the couch would normally go. She turns the chair and slips on the break from habit. He could take the green couch, which is closer, or a bentwood rocker next to the TV, probably meant for visiting guests. It looks hard and uncomfortable. He take the rocker, folding his hands in unconscious imitation of her own gesture. "I could say it's not what you think," he begins, "but I suspect that would just piss you off."

Her smile is wry. "Very clever. You just told me it's not what I think _and_ attempted to diffuse my anger by saying you know saying as much would make me angry. Don't try tricks, Edward. My _research_ is in communication modalities and difficult dialogues. I'm not the little girl you knew back in Forks, or a Nineteenth-Century lady. I'm a woman in a wheelchair who deals daily with people who talk over my head or assume I'm mentally disabled, not just physically. I know how people use and abuse language."

He swallows because it gives him a moment. Funny, that he'd ever thought her fragile. Her body may be breakable, bones like glass, flesh like tissue, but her _spirit_ . . . that is diamond and steel. "I'm not trying to insult you. I was just -- " He cuts off and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Mark and I weren't conspiring -- or not like you think. I didn't even talk to him until several years after the two of you met." Her eyebrow has gone up again. "After we got rid of Victoria, things sort of . . . well, it wasn't a good time for our family."

"Alice and Jasper told me. Rosalie and Emmett left, Carlisle and Esme broke up, and Alice and Jasper moved out. You're still with Esme, posing as her brother."

He nods. "There was a lot of arguing beforehand, but the end came quickly when it came. Rose and Emmett left after Rose exploded at me and Carlisle. Carlisle shut himself in his office for three days until Esme tore the door off, then _they_ fought, then Carlisle and I fought. Jasper had to leave because of all the negative energy. He was snapping at everyone and making it worse. He and Alice went to Minnesota, where they've been ever since. That left Carlisle, Esme and me, but Carlisle went to volunteer in Africa a few months later. He's wanted to do that for years, but Esme never really felt she had anything to offer there. They decided they needed some time apart. I stayed behind with Esme."

Bella has listened, watching him over steepled fingers. Her dark eyes are tender. "I'm sorry," she says. "After so long as a family, that must have been hell." She pauses to give weight to her words, then asks, "How does it relate to Mark, though?"

Edward pinches the bridge of his nose again. "During the hunt, one of us was always near you in case Victoria got past our dragnet. She was good; she'd obviously learned a lot from James. So we were aware of what was happening in your life, and by the time it was over, you'd met Mark. Alice had a vision of you happy with him, married to him. She said it wasn't certain though, and I should go see you -- tell you everything. It wasn't too late yet for us.

"I considered it. A couple of times I actually made it as far as the front door of the rehab center where you were living then. But I never quite . . . I just couldn't. The more I thought about it, the more I thought it would be _wrong_. Then one day during one of my waffling attempts, I passed Mark as he was leaving. I got a good look into his mind, and that decided it. I'm not easily impressed by most humans, but I was impressed by him. He was extraordinary, and he wasn't even twenty yet."

Bella's face softens as he speaks; her eyes mist over and she rubs at them. "Yes," she says, "yes, he was extraordinary."

Edward hesitates, weighing how to explain what came next, then plunges on. "The idea of you and Mark together was . . . difficult for me at first, and not because I was jealous. In the world I grew up in, a black man and a white woman . . . that just didn't happen. I know the world has changed, and I've tried to change with it. Intellectually, I agree with many of those changes. But I still had a gut-deep, knee-jerk negative reaction when I saw the two of you together -- even as I was struck by his . . . I guess you'd call it purity of spirit."

Her jaw sets hard, then she sighs and nods. "I appreciate your honesty. I'm sure these things _are_ hard for you to adjust to. It actually says a lot about you that you recognize as much and try."

He nods. "Thank you for understanding." He'd needed her to recall his own history in order to understand his decisions. "I was impressed by him -- very impressed -- even while another part of me was disturbed. You and him . . . it bugged the hell out of me, but it also bugged me that I was bugged." His smile is tight, but one from her answers it. "It also made me question my own motivations for trying to step back into your life. I still believed I was dangerous to you -- that _is_ why I left in the first place -- but I wondered if I might not be reconsidering just to keep you away from him . . . better that you be with a vampire than a nigger."

"Edward!"

"I used the n-word on purpose, Bella, _because_ it's ugly. And that ugly side of me still exists, deep down."

Her expression -- always so open -- shows her frank unease. "You never seemed prejudiced before."

"You put me on a pedestal before. I told you I was a selfish, sarcastic, murderous monster, but you insisted I hung the moon and stars. I do try _not_ to be prejudiced, but that doesn't mean I succeed. Anyway, I decided to do the opposite of what Alice suggested -- I'd wait and see if your relationship with Mark _did_ work. If it didn't, then I'd contact you. It was the only way I could be sure I was . . . acting fairly."

She's still frowning, and he thinks this really _isn't_ what she expected. Shaking her head, she runs fingers through her short hair, leaving it ruffled. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you're admirable for clinging so stubbornly to the lines you draw in the sand for yourself, or just ridiculous."

He'd laugh, except he's pretty sure she's not joking. "Maybe both?"

"Maybe both. So all right, I gather you didn't contact me because it did work out with Mark."

"Exactly."

"Passing him in a doorway doesn't equate to making him a promise, though -- "

"That's not the promise I made; that's just the reason I stayed away from you immediately after. It was over two years before I met him in person, and I did so then only because you told him about me first."

She flushes and looks down, embarrassed for the first time. Her blood, so bright in her cheeks, is still a siren call to him and he bites down on his tongue. "I had to," she says. "I had to be honest with him -- "

"I'm not criticizing you, Bella. I know you weren't trying to blow our cover -- and the two of you were serious enough that he needed the whole story. But he thought you were crazy."

Her smile is wry. "Mark was a very Missouri sort of boy, even if he wasn't from Missouri -- 'show me.' But he did eventually believe me."

"Because I _showed_ him," Edward says.

Her jaw drops open. "_What?_"

"I showed him. I wasn't kidding, earlier. He _was_ worried about your sanity -- not in a cruel way, but in a 'maybe I don't know her as well as I thought and does she need help?' way. Vampires and werewolves don't exist, but you were insistent. He did give you enough credit at least to ask Jacob about it, but Jacob laughed and told him you were sometimes a little fanciful."

"How do you know what Jacob said?" Bella demands. She looks sucker-punched.

"I saw it in Mark's memory. Jacob wouldn't admit to anything."

He watches as Bella holds onto her anger a moment more, then sighs and lets it go. Even when young, she'd been eminently sensible and has become more so with maturity. "Jacob wouldn't even tell me," she says now, "although I already knew about vampires. I still had to figure out the werewolf part for myself. I'm not surprised he wouldn't tell Mark, but he should at least have told me that Mark was asking questions."

"Mark asked him not to. Anyway, with Jacob denying it, Mark had backhanded confirmation of what he'd feared -- that you were delusional or otherwise unstable. I couldn't . . . well, I couldn't let him think that of you, so I showed up in his apartment one night when you were at the library. He was a bit freaked out at first. Then he hit me in the jaw when I told him who I was."

Bella's own jaw drops again, but abruptly, she bursts out laughing. "He _hit_ you?"

"Yeah -- almost broke his hand. I had to set and wrap it for him."

"I remember that! But he said he punched a wall! He couldn't write with that hand for almost a month."

"He did punch a wall, in a manner of speaking. Anyway, after, we talked. And I promised him . . . I promised I wasn't there to try to come between you. I could see his uncertainties in his mind. Everybody has insecurities, and he loved you, feared losing you to an old flame. I didn't want him to think I was angling to get you back. So I promised."

Bella doesn't interrupt him. Her eyes are narrowed, but he doesn't think she's angry, just pondering. As so often before, he wishes he could know the direction of her thoughts.

"We met a few times after that," Edward admits. "I guess you could say we reached a truce that night. I gave him a phone number he could use, should he ever need to reach me. If I wasn't the first person he'd turn to in a normal crisis -- or even the fifteenth -- I have . . . advantages normal humans don't. He knew about Victoria, so he was understandably worried. There was a time he feared the two of you were being stalked again, and he did call me." Her eyes go wide but he waves a dismissive hand. "It was a false alarm. I watched you for two solid weeks and found no trace of any other vampire. I even called in Jasper and Alice to be sure I wasn't missing anything -- they found no traces either, and Alice didn't see you in any danger. But I was glad he'd called me. It showed a certain amount of trust. We spoke a little more often after that, and he called me before he proposed to you."

"What? To ask for your blessing?" She looks half amused, half appalled.

"No. I doubt he thought he needed it."

"He didn't," she insists, chin raised.

"He just called to tell me he was going to ask . . . a courtesy, I assume. It was by phone and long-distance, so I couldn't read his mind, but I think he didn't want me to hear about it second-hand."

Bella nods. "He was good like that."

"Yes, he was good -- truly a good man. It would've been convenient if I could've hated him, but I couldn't." His voice is wry.

She snorts. "You aren't the vindictive sort, Edward."

"Oh, yes I am. I carry a grudge like an elephant. Remember what I said earlier -- you refused to see my faults. And I don't think I really knew you, either. You were the great mystery."

"I remember how you used to tell me I drove you crazy, trying to figure me out."

"You did!"

"I thought you the most beautiful man I'd ever seen," she says, voice soft with musing. "I couldn't believe you wanted _me_."

"You undersell yourself, Bella."

"I did -- then." Now it's her turn to sound wry, and the fact she can admit to her own teenaged anxieties tells him how far she's grown. But he likes it. She's become the person he caught only glimpses of ten years ago. "So that's it?" she asks now. "That's all there was to it? After talking to Alice and Jasper, I was expecting covert spy missions to check on my welfare or something."

He has to laugh. "Well, I admit, I did occasionally check up on you -- but at a distance."

"No stealing into my bedroom for the exciting purpose of watching me sleep?"

He shakes his head. "Given that you were sleeping with Mark by that point, it might've been embarrassing for all concerned."

She laughs at that. "True." There is a pause, then she eyes him. "That was creepy, you know -- you sneaking into my bedroom at night when I didn't know it. I can't believe I ever thought it romantic."

"I can't believe you did, either. At the time, my own actions disgusted _me_."

He might have said he'd watched her then for the same reason he's sitting here now. But it's not the same reason. He'd been fascinated by her, obsessed, drawn by her blood and her mystery. Around her, his mind had been blessedly _quiet_, but that had frustrated him as much as it had relieved him. He'd been struggling to figure her out: his personal puzzle.

He's sitting here now because he loves her. Completely, impossibly, and still. He always was fixed in his affections -- stubborn, some might have said.

"I assume the 'watching' is why you and Esme live up in Helen now?" she asks, sounding more curious than angry.

He crosses one ankle over his knee and folds his hands atop. "Only in part. Esme grew up in flat Ohio farmlands, so she loves the Blue Ridge, and Helen is a home designer and restorationist's dream town. Besides, weather patterns in the mountains work well for our kind -- even sunny days can start out with mist and fog. That you were nearby . . . it was icing on the cake."

She cocks her head. "So you're _not_ stalking me?"

"Well, maybe a little." He holds up forefinger and thumb an inch apart. "But not really, no. Before Mark died, I'd been to Dawesonville only a handful of times." He doesn't tell her he's been here twice as much since, nor that knowing he was within two hours of her had made it easier to keep his distance. When he'd lived further, he'd felt compelled to check on her more.

"If you _weren't_ stalking me, how did you know about Mark?" she asks, but realizes the answer to that and answers even as he does: "Alice."

"I got here as soon as I could after I got her message," he adds.

She looks off and he studies her profile. It is at once sharper with age and softer with inevitable weight-gain. She has a bit of a double-chin now. She looks . . . calm -- much calmer than when he first arrived. Her heartbeat is even. She isn't angry anymore.

And damn Alice. He's sure she saw this outcome -- or at least saw it was a possibility. He'd say something to wreck the fragile peace just to upset her applecart, except that would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. "So," she says, "now that I know the whole story . . . and that _is_ the whole story?" She pauses to eye him.

"Yes, or most of it. Anything else is minor."

"How minor is 'minor,' Edward?"

"Minor. I could list it for you, but it's getting late and you have a nine a-m seminar tomorrow."

"You know my _schedule_?"

Ooops. "Mark told me." He shrugs. "I was interested in what you were studying, Bella, so I asked him if he'd tell me what classes you were taking. He did."

"And knowing what I'm taking means knowing when I'm taking it?"

She's sharp. "Actually, Mark just mailed me a copy of your schedule. It included the name, instructor, class and time." He taps his head. "Photographic memory, remember?"

She eyes him as if she's measuring whether to believe that. "All right," she says finally. "Now that I know the whole story, are you going to continue lurking around corners or actually drive over from Helen to say hello upon occasion?"

His heart _soars_ and he can't help but grin. "Of course I'll drive over, if you want."

"I do. I'd like to see Esme, too, if she'd like to see me."

"She'd be tickled pink -- well, figuratively speaking."

"I don't have a lot of friends up here -- not people I know well. I'd like to think we could be friends."

He nods once, decisively. He'll be whatever she wants, for as long as she wants.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes:** All Cullens this time. We'll be back to Bella in the next part.

* * *

Edward lives his next few days in a glittering cloud of renewed hope and vistas of possibility. He stays away from Bella to give Alice time before she and Jasper go back to Minnesota. Jasper has returned to Helen to visit, and Alice joins them a couple of days later. Having at least four of them together again is at once heart soothing and heart searing, underscoring who's missing.

"Carlisle is considering taking a short holiday around Christmas, if we'd like him to come home." Esme says this as the four of them are sprawled in a forest clearing north of Helen, resting after a hunt. It's not that they're tired; vampires don't get tired in that way. It's a psychological thing. This is their version of a "family dinner," and to lie quietly after, talking among themselves, is nice. Esme had mentioned Carlisle's diplomatic feelers to Edward earlier, but not yet to Alice and Jasper.

Now, Alice sits up and twists her torso to look at Esme, who is some feet away. "If he came, we'd come down to visit, of course. The question is -- do _you_ want him to come back? Are you ready? You always ask us, but I think sometimes you forget about you. This time, _you_ decide Esme. We'll abide by your decision."

Esme smiles fondly. "Thank you, Alice." She is silent a while. Edward does his best to stay out of her mind, but he can't help overhearing the turmoil of thoughts. Despite their arguments, she has never stopped loving Carlisle because it was Carlisle who taught her what real love _was_, at least from a man to a woman. He showed her gentleness where she'd known only violence; he offered her a new life when she'd been too depressed to continue living the life fate had condemned her to. But she is frustrated with how he handled Edward's own decisions about Bella, the strife it caused in the family, and his subsequent guilt for his perceived failures. She once, jokingly, told Edward she thinks Carlisle is having 'a mid-vampire-life crisis.' He'd needed to go and do something he'd felt called to for decades -- work with AIDS patients in Africa since he was incapable of getting infected.

"That isn't the sort of thing I handle well," she'd told Edward. "I feel helpless and overwhelmed because I don't have anything to offer. But Carlisle -- he can _do_ something productive. Maybe the best contribution I can make is to let him go for a while -- stop holding him back." So Carlisle had gone, and Edward had stayed with Esme.

But Edward knows Esme misses her husband. He's heard her sob late at night, and even if she has no tears to cry, it doesn't mean her body can't go through the motions. Despite her loneliness, she also worries that if Carlisle does come back, the old quarrels will start anew -- especially between Carlisle and Edward.

"I'll behave myself," Edward says now. "And I'm sure Bella will be going home to Jacksonville for the holidays."

Alice swivels her head to eye him. The corners of her mouth are curled. "And what do Bella's holiday plans have to do with anything?"

Edward would blush if he could -- is sure Jasper can feel his sudden embarrassment because Jasper is grinning up at the gray mountain predawn sky. "Nothing," Edward says. "I just meant that if things get tense I could . . . take a road trip. Or something."

"Maybe we should invite Bella to Helen for New Year's," Alice suggests. It's almost playful.

"All Bella said is that she wants to be friends with me," Edward warns. "Let's not hurry things, shall we?"

"Sure," Alice replies. Jasper, Edward notes, is grinning wider and even Esme is struggling not to chuckle.

Edward stands abruptly. The forest is full of mist here at dawn. "Don't make fun of me," he says and dashes off, back to his Audi parked in one of the scenic pull-offs on the Southern edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest.

The next day, he and Alice are working on hanging new ceiling lamps at the restaurant Esme is redesigning. "We weren't making fun of you," Alice says abruptly.

"You were all vastly amused." His voice is full of darkness as he wires the fixtures. It's fortunate vampires don't need light to see the way humans do. They'd been able to throw the breaker to this room and he doesn't require a flashlight, just the silver moon shining through the front windows. Of course, he could probably have connected it while the wiring was live; being electrocuted wouldn't hurt him. But it might hurt the lamp, or start a fire, and Esme would rip his head off if he ruined all her careful work.

Now Alice says, "You want so _desperately_ to be with her, it practically oozes out of you. You know it's all right to be happy that she wants to be friends."

"-- which is only possible because another man is _dead_. It seems a little . . . crass . . . to be happy about that."

"Human emotions aren't neat, tidy things. There's a difference between leaping for joy that Mark Jackson died -- which you're not -- and being happy that Bella is interested in renewing your contact. Think of it . . . think of it like an . . . an organ donor."

"An _organ donor_?"

"Yeah. Organ donation usually means somebody died, but it also usually means another person has a shot at life. Mark is dead. That's terrible. But it was an accident -- not your fault, and you're not doing dances. But it also means you and Bella have a second chance. After all, didn't he _ask_ you to look in on her if anything happened to him?"

Edward's lips thin and he doesn't answer. Instead he says, "Don't force my hand next time."

"You were waffling."

"I was _waiting_. It's been less than two months ago. I wasn't going to waltz in there to woo her while she's still in the heavy grieving stage."

"Would you've ever waltzed in at all?"

"Yes. As you just noted, I promised Mark I'd look after her. I don't take my promises lightly. Whatever she wants, I'll be. I'm just . . . I'm not in a hurry."

"Yes, you are," she smiles.

He pauses while working on the second-to-last fixture and glares at her in the night dark. "Stop it," he says. "Just stop it. I'm _not_ in a hurry. I hope that . . . some day . . . we'll be more than friends again. But it might be nice to actually, I don't know, _get to know her_ this time first."

She sighs; it's intentionally dramatic. "You already know her. You've been watching her for ten years. You love her more now than you ever loved her then."

He grits his teeth. "She doesn't know me. Not as well as she probably should."

"_Now_ you're being honest. But she will."

"Cut the cryptic remarks, Alice. For once, I don't want to know."

Alice doesn't reply to that because she doesn't need to. She's all too aware that he _does_ want to know -- needs to know, needs to believe in the possibility. And she wouldn't be pushing him so hard if there _wasn't_ a possibility, but the fact she can see the future sometimes leads her to put carts before horses. He was guilty of listening last time and following her lead. Alice had seen that he could love Bella, so he'd leapt hurdles without looking. He wanted to take it slow this time, relish the experience of mutual (re-)discovery. "At least she didn't throw me out of her apartment," he says now conversationally.

"Be glad Jasper and I got there first so she could take out her anger on us -- but don't assume you're out of the woods. She'll eventually remember that part of why she's pissed at you and skin you alive -- verbally, anyway."

He can't help but smile. "I have no doubt. And I'll deserve it, and apologize most sincerely -- and mean it."

"And eat it up the whole time. Edward, I think you've developed a fondness for tough women."

"I think I always had one. It's just that the definition of 'tough' tends to change over time."

"Not really," Alice says. "And hurry up with the wiring."

"This is the last one. And what did you mean, 'not really'?"

"I meant that it's less the definition of tough that changes than how toughness gets expressed. Rosalie is tough too." He makes a face but she pushes on. "She _is_. She doesn't express it the same why Bella does -- or the way I do, or how Esme does."

"All right," he concedes as he finishes and reattaches the ceiling fixture. "So maybe how toughness is shown does change. But getting back to my original point -- I _would_ have contacted her again. Eventually." He leaps down off the ladder lightly and she follows from hers. The moon through the front windows is at full and bright, molten silver pouring over the tables and floor.

"You're as slow as molasses in winter," Alice scolds, folding her ladder and carrying it off to the back. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that it might be a good idea to make friends sooner rather than later so she's more willing to agree to some help -- financial and around her apartment -- when she has to prepare for her comps and orals in January? If you thought she'd just accept you showing up on her doorstep with no preparation, you really _don't_ understand her. I had to do _something_. Besides, she was going to figure out it was Jasper who paid for the funeral, and I could see that if we went to her and confessed first, she'd be less angry in the long run. If you'd let her go to the college techies and open that file with all your and Mark's correspondence, she would've been _pissed_. And good luck getting her past that for a few _years_."

Hands on hips, he nods, conceding her point. "All right."

"Besides, it's Mark's privacy too. And it's probably better to let her know gradually the extent of the contact the two of you had. That's not being dishonest, it's being sensitive. Your friendship with Mark took years to develop. Don't assume she can get used to the idea in a few hours. It sounds as if she took at least the basics in the best of the ways I saw as possible." Coming back to face him, she tilts up her chin and thrusts out her lower lip. He knows it's calculated for maximum cuteness but it still works. "And like I said, you owe Jasper and me big time for drawing off the worst of the fire."

"I'll think of something to compensate," he promises.

"You'd better." She turns towards the restaurant rear where the breaker-box is. They can hear Esme humming to herself in the other room and Jasper's occasional comment, and in the street beyond, the rumble of a car on the road. If augmented hearing is so normal, Edward usually dismisses such sounds, this car is slowing to turn into the parking lot. In reflex he turns his head towards the restaurant front. It's after one in the morning. Surely some local yokel isn't planning to break-in?

The car stops. Alice has paused too, and Jasper and Esme both come to the door between the back room and the main dining area. The light from the other room frames their forms with yellow. Outside, car doors pop and feet hit the gravel. Whoever it is isn't attempting stealth.

Then come the voices. "Are you sure they'll be here? We should've gone by the house first."

"Nah, you know her. She'll be here. Can't keep her away from a project, just like you can't keep Alice away from sticking her fingers in the pie."

Edward barely has time to register the speaker's identities before Emmett is pounding on the restaurant door. "I know y'all can hear me in there. Gonna let us in?"

Alice is already at the door and has it open even as she flings herself into Emmett's waiting embrace. They're both laughing. Edward thinks Alice, at least, might be crying, too, if she were able. "You did come!"

Rose shoves at her husband lightly and slips past. "Move, you big ox." She's met by Esme in an equally enthusiastic embrace, and even Jasper steps in to hug her. Only Edward hasn't moved from where he's standing, staring, mouth agape. Rose pulls away from Jasper and turns her eyes his way even as Alice -- finally -- releases Emmett and let's Esme and Jasper in. "So," Rosalie says. "I hear you finally found the balls to talk to Bella. It's about damn time."

* * *

**A/N:** I wanted to thank people again for the reviews on both and live journal; they're very sweet and encouraging. I love hearing what you think. So again, thanks, and if you're enjoying the story and are so inclined, please mention it to friends. smooches to all


	11. Chapter 11

**Part Summary:** Bella attempts to get her head around what she's learned even while preparing for her first Christmas alone, grading exams, worrying about finances, writing papers . . . and being visited by the last person she ever expected.

* * *

To be honest, Bella is glad when everybody leaves. It has been an exhausting few days -- mentally, emotionally, even physically because she hasn't been able to sleep well. She finds herself radically rethinking her last eight or nine years, wondering what _else_ she's missed, and beginning to ask herself what Edward left out. As he'd been inclined to do that before, why should now be different? Sometimes she wakes suddenly in the night to push herself up in the bed, certain she heard a noise and half expecting to find Edward watching her from a corner. He never is, but at the speed he moves, he could also have left before she knows it.

It creeps her out, and the morning before Alice departs for Helen, she grips her old friend's wrist to demand -- "He's not sneaking in to watch me sleep, is he?" She knows Edward wouldn't be able to fool Alice.

The question appears to surprise Alice (which is a rare thing) -- and that surprise as much as her subsequent words reassures Bella. "No, he's not. He wouldn't do that anymore."

"Are you certain? He's been watching me at a distance for almost a decade."

"'At a distance' is the operative there," Alice says. "He's changed. Just like you have."

"I thought vampires didn't change? You're fixed in your ideas and affections." It's half question, half rebuke.

Brows up, Alice looks ready to laugh. "Edward told you that?" Bella nods and now Alice does laugh. "He has a bad habit of generalizing _his_ tendencies to other people. _Edward_ is stubborn and fixed in his ideas. Of course vampires change, Bella. We don't change as fast as you, and sometimes we can get . . . stuck in a rut, or even caught by time -- caught _in_ time, if you will. The world . . . it moves very fast for us." Alice's gold eyes grow distant. "It becomes easy to . . . slip outside time -- even more for nomads, but for us too. Sometimes I find myself struggling to remember who the president is, or whether this or that event happened last week or ten years ago. It's not that we forget; it's just that there is so _much_ to remember. The world is very different now than what it was when I woke up to being a vampire."

Bella listens with great interest. Vampire time-perception wasn't something she'd given a lot of thought to back then, as a sense of history isn't something most high school students have anyway -- even odd ones like her. The world is an immediate place for teens. Yet she is more aware now of shifts and changes. She has voted twice for a president, seen the fall of regimes, seen the start of wars and their ending -- all in only 10 years. How much more must the Cullens have seen?

Before she can say anything, however, Alice concludes, "But yes, we do change, and Edward has changed a good deal -- much as he might not want to admit it."

After that, Bella stops worrying about waking to find him in her room, and starts to worry about something else Jasper and Alice had said. Edward still loves her. In fact, they'd claimed he loves her more now than he had ten years ago.

The problem is that Bella doesn't still love Edward. Certainly she'd been devastated at first, lost without him and driven to foolish and dangerous acts just to hear his imaginary voice in her head. But time did heal. She met somebody new and now thinks of her first love softly, the old intensity muted by remoteness. Her _husband_ is the man she loved most, and still misses. Sometimes she thinks she can hear Mark's step in the hall, or his voice in a crowd. She remains tuned to his rhythms and looks at the clock when she'd be expecting him home. Except he'll never come home again. She can barely bring herself to cook because he did that, and she washed and gave away all his clothes, then scrubbed her apartment from top to bottom because every time she caught the scent of him, she broke down in hysterical sobbing. She dreams of him, and some mornings wakes to _feel_ his arm braced across her ribcage, his body spooned up against her back. She wonders if she's being haunted -- and doesn't mind.

She isn't ready to let go of him yet, not for anyone, even an old high-school sweetheart she'd once thought a god come to earth. She isn't certain she ever _will_ be ready, although common sense tells her her heart will heal again. Right now, she doesn't want to hear that, or think it. The idea of getting over Mark makes her _angry_, and she clings to her grief like the lover she's missing.

So she doesn't want to love Edward, and doesn't want him to love her. She wonders if she was wise to suggest he come down from Helen sometimes to visit. It might be cruel. She recalls how Jacob Black had mooned after her until her accident and move to Jacksonville. Yet Jacob had met Irene a few years after that, and is long over her now.

Can Edward move past her the same way? Or is he too stubborn and stuck in a rut, as Alice had suggested vampires could get? She hopes she still _likes_ him enough to put up with him. She was infatuated before and never saw him clearly. Things could get awkward if, after all this time, she discovers he really is a jerk (as some at Forks High once claimed), or they have nothing in common and nothing to talk about. So much of their previous interaction was fueled by hormones and mutual curiosity (in her case, both of him and of vampires). Mark, however, had been her best friend and her equal before they became lovers, then spousal units. She misses their debates and trips of discovery to this or that new place; she even misses their occasional quarrels. She isn't sure Edward ever saw her as his equal, despite his declarations of admiration. He'd treated her like a blown-glass ornament. If he starts doing that again, she isn't sure she'll be able to be polite about it.

In any case, she knows she must stop over-thinking it. The end of the semester is approaching and she has a paper to complete for her final seminar, as well as plans to make for the imminent Christmas break. Thanksgiving had passed with her buried in the library, and immediately after, she'd been preoccupied with the Cullens. But now, she must decide what to do with herself for the holidays -- wishes she could just ignore it all. She's not ready to celebrate without Mark.

At least she knows she can pay the January rent and still eat. After that -- well, she just isn't sure. Technically, her lease runs through May but the landlords -- accustomed to the uncertainties of renting to senior citizens and the disabled -- allow some flexibility. If she can give one month's notice, she can have 75 of her safety deposit back. The problem is that she's not sure she can prepare for her comps and orals _and_ prepare a CV for job hunting -- never mind schedule job interviews. She really needs the cushion of February, and maybe even March after that. If she can count on Renee to help, she hates to ask. Perhaps if it came down to it, she could borrow one month's rent from her mother and one from her father with a promise to pay it all back in installments when she gets a job. And she will pay it back. She prides herself on self-sufficiency -- always did.

(It never crosses her mind to ask Edward or Alice for it.)

A Tuesday afternoon in early December, exactly seven weeks after Mark's death, she is in for her final office hours of the semester. The day has been busy with students, so when her office door is darkened by yet another shadow, she just says, "Come in," and barely glances up.

Then she does a double-take.

Rosalie Hale stands there, dressed to the nines in a dark blue silk suit and matching -- but surprisingly sensible -- pumps. It's probably all Gucci or Chanel or Versace but Bella would hardly know. Instead, she focuses on Rosalie's face. It's serious but not unfriendly. Her gold hair is back in a no-nonsense twist and she wears a minimum of makeup -- she's not playing the model. She looks very . . . professional.

"What are you doing here?" Bella blurts, then realizes how rude that sounds and rubs her eyes. Just what she didn't need right now -- another Cullen, and her least favorite of the bunch. "Sorry, I'm just -- "

"-- surprised?" Rosalie finishes. "No doubt. Are you finished with office hours for the day?" She glances at a pretty gold watch on her wrist. "It's four-thirty."

Bella considers her visitor for three breaths. Rose appears . . . not impatient, but oddly _eager_. Curious in turn, Bella decides she's quite ready to be done for the day -- and the semester -- and so says, "Yes."

Nodding once, Rose sticks her head back out the door to tell somebody waiting there (and there are _still_ students?), "Office hours are over. You should have planned ahead." She pulls the door shut. If not quite a slam, it's final.

Bella can't help but smirk. "I'm sure somebody's pissed."

Rose shrugs with one shoulder. "I don't have much pity for procrastinators." She takes the empty seat without being invited and crosses her legs, perfectly manicured hands laced atop her knees. But her nails aren't painted.

"I thought you weren't talking to Edward?" Bella begins

Rose's lips curl. "I wasn't. But I am talking to Alice and Jasper. Now that Edward has decided to stop being five kinds of idiot, I can talk to you, too."

"I thought you didn't like me?" Bella blurts it out.

Rosalie's eyebrows lift. "Not like you? Honestly, Bella, don't be silly. I thought you were a threat to the family at first, and later, I thought you foolish for being so ready to throw away your whole life for a boy, but I never _disliked_ you -- not in the way you mean. I wouldn't be here now if I'd disliked you. I'm here because I need your help -- and your expertise."

Bella isn't sure what she feels upon hearing that -- some relief and some resentment. But mostly she feels a jarring shock, a tearing aside of her adolescent constructed realities. Rose had been the perfect, popular beauty queen of high school whom Bella couldn't hope to match. Even after she'd learned Rose was a vampire older than Bella's own mother (and grandmother), her insecurities hadn't changed. Rose had been That Girl, the one all the other girls had loved to hate and who they'd assumed out to get anybody and everybody just because she could.

"My expertise?" Bella stammers now, trying not to sound shocked.

"Yes." Rose pulls a business card out of her purse and leans forward, handing it to Bella, who glances down at it. The central legend grabs her attention beyond addresses and phone numbers:

**Rosalie L. Hale, L.L.P.  
providing representation in  
Family Law and Domestic Violence**

Rose was a _lawyer_? Mouth open, Bella lifts her eyes to stare. "Uh -- how can I help you?" She hopes she doesn't sound as baffled as she feels.

"I want to open a shelter for battered women and victims of spousal rape. I've got more than enough money for the start-up, and I can handle the legal aspects, but I need someone who knows how to run the thing -- establish community contacts, work with the police and social services, find us a secure location . . . all that. I realize it's not exactly your speciality in women's studies, but I figured you'd at least know where I need to start."

"I . . . I . . . " Bella can't speak for a moment, then manages, "But . . . _why?_ I mean, well, you . . . ah . . . "

Rose seems amused by Bella's beached-fished imitation. "Why would I care? You weren't with us long enough to hear my story, were you? Why I was turned?" Bella shakes her head. "I was gang-raped and dying in a Rochester alley when Carlisle found me." This is offered matter-of-factly in a voice devoid of self-pity. "It's taken me almost eighty years to figure out it's time to stop being angry at the world and blaming fate. My assailants are long dead but there are a million more out there just like them." Her yellow eyes narrow. "I plan to kick the hell back and start taking names. Are you with me?"

Dumbly, Bella nods and Rose holds out a hand. Bella takes it; Rose's grip is cold and firm. "This isn't precisely how it's done," Rose says. "I should draw up a contract with a job description, salary, and duties first, but -- you're hired."

* * *

**A/N:** Once again, thanks to everybody who's taken a minute to review. I love hearing from you. Let me know what you think of _this_ little twist! Rose is back and she's mad as hell. LOL! (And maybe she's not quite who Bella remembers or first thought.) Don't fear for Edward and his feelings, however of course Bella would still be grieving for Mark. It hasn't been two months yet.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes:** And just where did Rosalie's idea come from anyway? With input from Emmett.

* * *

If Rosalie's appearance -- and proposition -- might have shocked Bella quite thoroughly, it was clear it wasn't a new idea to Rosalie. She'd already drawn up plans and basic legal documents to start a private, non-profit agency. It would require details to be filled in for any specific state, but the bare bones were there. "How long have you been contemplating this?" Bella asks, curious.

"A long time -- off and on. But more seriously only recently."

Bella is baffled. "Because of me? Did you know I was a women's studies grad student too?"

Rose grins, watching Bella pack up her things for the day. "Yes, I knew via Alice. But I majored in women's studies too, once."

Bella's eyebrows lift. "You did?" It isn't the sort of thing she'd ever expected from Rosalie.

"Don't look so shocked. I finished back in 1983 when women's studies was all new and shiny and in vogue. But that was over thirty years ago, and just an undergraduate degree anyway. I still need your expertise." She shrugs; it's deliberately artless. "I did it then because Emmett had lost a bet and had to take an intro class. I took it with him, then just . . . stayed in the program."

There are a freight of unsaid things that lie behind that last sentence, and once again, Bella is struck by how little she really knows about the Cullens. Rose had majored in women's studies before Bella had been _born_. "Did you march for ERA?" she asks now, curious.

"Of course. Along with Esme and Alice."

They've reached the little lobby where the receptionist's desk sits in the small suite of offices that serve Women's Studies, Latino Studies and Native American Studies. Emmett is sitting there leafing through a magazine. He seems large enough to fill up the whole space, and seeing Bella, grins widely and hops up, crossing in two steps to her chair to lift her bodily and hug her tight. Her useless legs dangle. "Bella!"

"Emmett!" Rose rebukes, sounding properly PC-shocked, but Bella just laughs and hugs him back, not as upset as she probably should be for feeling like a doll in his grip. She'd always felt like a doll around Emmett, so this is no different.

"I missed you," she says as Emmett lowers her back into her chair with surprising care.

"Missed you, too, Bella-boo."

Bella rolls her eyes at the silly nickname and is glad it's almost five and their work-study student is gone for the day already. But it is dead-week and students are cutting corners for what spare time they can find to bone up for finals or finish term papers. Bella has her own paper to put finishing touches on, but decides it can wait and lets Rose and Emmett take her out to dinner even if she's the only one who'll actually be eating. It's a nice little Italian restaurant, which is about as exotic as Dawesonville gets (it's not Atlanta). Emmett's dimples and the return of his sweet Tennessee drawl wrangles them a booth in the back so he and Rosalie can clear their pasta plates into convenient baggies they've brought for that purpose. "You can store it and eat it later," Rose says pragmatically. "No sense in wasting it."

That's when Rose lays out her plans and proposals while Emmett looks on with a mixture of pride and proprietary interest. After a while, Bella interrupts to say, "But Alice told me that you and Emmett live in Nashville now. Have you passed the bar in Georgia too, or were you expecting me to move to Tennessee?" She supposes she could move -- she needs the job -- but Rose has been talking as if she'd planned to open the shelter here.

"Nashville already has a shelter; I do _pro bono_ work for them." She glances at Emmett; it seems like she's asking for permission. He nods once. "These days, most urban areas have shelters," Rose continues, "but rural areas don't necessarily. It's hard to find funding, and harder to get cooperation and volunteers. Rural communities are -- "

" -- defensive," Emmett finishes when she pauses, but doesn't elaborate.

"There's just not the concentrated population, or the feminist or organizational networks in place to support them," Rose says. "But domestic violence occurs in rural areas too, and those women lack recourse that urban women have."

Bella only nods. She knows all this, but Rose is on a soapbox and Bella doesn't interrupt. She's never seen Rosalie passionate like this. It's interesting. "Their families may even blame them, or at least tell them to suck it up and stick it out because people will talk, or because the Bible tells them to obey their husbands, or because they don't know what else to do about it. I'd originally thought about starting this in Tennessee, but . . . well -- "

"-- the family's here," Emmett finishes. He looks unusually somber and plays with his water glass. "It don't matter to me, Rose. Tennessee, Georgia, West Virginia, Alabama . . . it don't matter to me as long as people get help."

Bella looks from Rose to Emmett, and mostly finished with her pasta, pushes the plate aside. She's seated in the booth, having been lifted into it earlier by Emmett. Her chair is backed up against the wall out of the way. "I gather this is a joint project?" she asks.

Emmett's smile is gentle and his gold eyes grow a bit distant. "I had a great family growing up," he says. "We never had much money even before the Depression, but we had each other. That was good enough. It never occurred to me . . . well, I didn't know all families weren't like mine."

He shifts in his booth seat; the vinyl squeaks under his weight. "There was this other family my parents used to play cards with, the Pritchards." As he speaks, his accent comes back full force along with old speech patterns. "All us kids'd go up to the loft and play games there, or us boys'd go out and shoot BB guns at tin cans. Me and my brothers used to look forward to card-game night just to get out of the house. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. Mama and Pa never explained why when we'd complain, just said we wouldn't be goin' back there no more. We could see the kids at school, but that was it.

"About two years later, Old Man Pritchard was found dead at the bottom of the family well. The county sheriff poked around a bit, but nobody ever got arrested. A few years after, Billy, the eldest, blew his head off out in their chicken coop."

Bella winces. Emmett is frowning, his usually genial face looking thunderous.

"Mizz Pritchard and her kids had to leave town -- go live with her sister in Cosby because Billy was the only one supporting 'em after his pa died. It was the Depression by then, though really to us, there weren't no difference. You don't get much lower'n dirt poor." His grin is sardonic. "I don't know what happened to them, but my older brother finally told me the rest of the story. Billy had pushed his pa into that well and dropped rocks on him to kill him. Old Man Pritchard was a drunk -- used to hit his wife and kids, then one day, Billy caught him fondling his little sister and that was it. He killed him, but couldn't live with it after, started drinking too, and finally just shot himself."

Emmett looks up at Bella. "I guess you could say I got my eyes opened that day. Other families weren't like ours. Later, I found out Rose's story" -- he nods at Rose -- "and Esme's too. It really . . . "

He pauses to shake his head and Rose reaches over, covering his hand with hers. "It makes me _furious_. It makes me furious when a man uses his strength to hurt the people he oughta protect. I know, I know -- women's lib is all about women protecting themselves, taking care of themselves -- and that's fine. I get it. My ego don't require chest thumping. I'm not Tarzan, but I've always been strong even when I was little. Mama told me God gave me strength for a reason so I could protect my family. And back then, that's what a good husband, a good _man_ did. So it pisses me off when a man abuses that role, even if it makes me sound old-fashioned. It's wrong. It's just _wrong_. No kid should have to make the choice Billy did. And maybe . . . maybe if there'd been some other _option_ for 'em, he wouldn't've had to. That was in the 1920s, sure, and all anybody in Gatlinburg could do for the Pritchards was turn a blind eye to what'd really happened -- that his own son had killed him -- because all the adults knew Old Man Pritchard was a bastard. But the rural places ain't changed that much, and it's not just big cities that need shelters. Maybe we can save some other Billy from killing his pa to protect his mama and sisters."

If Bella had been physically able, she'd have climbed right out of her booth to hug Emmett silly. As it is, all she can do is grip his hand with both hers atop Rosalie's. "Emmett, it's not old fashioned to say men shouldn't hit women. Nobody should hit someone weaker than they are."

Rose shoots her a smile and Bella thinks she gets it finally -- why Rosalie loves Emmett. It has nothing to do with his very obvious masculinity and everything to do with a gentle soul. If Bella also suspects Rose -- a rape survivor -- might like the sense of protection Emmett offers, Rose doesn't really need it these days, as a vampire. But there are other ways of being saved -- in heart and spirit.

"In any case," Rose says after a minute, "to practice law here in Georgia, I'll have take their state bar this July, then go through the usual ethics and standards check. But it wouldn't be a bad idea to be able to practice in a couple of states; I should do it for North Carolina, too. And it'll no doubt take a while to get this shelter off the ground anyway."

Bella nods, glad that Rose has a realistic grasp of time frames and isn't expecting to open tomorrow. "Since we're starting from scratch, it may be as much as a year before we're fully operational." How funny that she's slipped so quickly into speaking of it all in the first person plural: 'we.' "We have to find a building, establish local contacts with social services, build up supplies, round up donors -- "

"Emmett and I have plenty of money," Rose interrupts. "We don't have to worry about that."

"You can't fund it all yourself," Bella cautions, "even if you are a major donor. It'll look funny in any audit, and non-profits have to be very careful about that sort of thing. There are legit donors we can hit up. Lorraine -- my advisor -- has a lot of contacts."

They wander off into a discussion of details and the restaurant is closing, the wait staff glaring at them, wishing they'd leave already by the time they realize what time it _is_. So they go back to Bella's place where they continue their plotting session late into the night while Emmett half listens and flips TV channels. Bella is a little surprised to discover Rose hasn't said anything about her shelter idea to the rest of the Cullens, and they finally get around to discussing Rosalie's take on the whole family meltdown.

"Edward was being a melodramatic, selfish ass," she tells Bella, her yellow eyes flashing, if eyes could really be said to flash outside Romance novels. "Esme knuckled under because Edward Can Do No Wrong, and Carlisle wouldn't buck them both because he still feels guilty for turning Edward in the first place -- and he feels guilty because Edward just _won't let it go_."

Bella keeps her thoughts to herself, but wonders if Rosalie really has room to talk when it comes to not letting things go. Emmett has glanced over as well, his lips curled as if he might be thinking the same thing but with more tolerant fondness for his wife's foibles. "I thought Edward admired Carlisle?" Bella asks -- carefully. She isn't really up to defending Edward, but wants to be fair.

"Oh, he admires and hates him both, but he's too caught up in his little fancy of a perfect family to admit to the latter. Still, he's never forgiven Carlisle for turning him without asking. Truth is, Carlisle never asked _any_ of us."

"Well, we were _dying_ at the time," Emmett points out dryly while still facing the TV. "I never held it against you."

Rose glares at him, then shrugs. "Actually, that's probably why I blame Carlisle less. I didn't want to be a vampire, but it's better than dying if for no other reason than that I could get my revenge." Her eyes slide to Bella's face and her smile is bitter-sickly sweet. "I've never tasted human blood -- the only one in the family besides Carlisle who can say that -- but I've been an angel of vengeance." Her expression says she expects Bella to recoil.

Bella shakes her head. "I'm not going to judge you, Rose. And I suspect you know the whole 'proper release of anger' spiel anyway."

Chin lifting slightly, Rose studies Bella from slitted eyes. "You really have grown up." Then she shrugs again. "No matter. I didn't want to be turned, but I didn't want to die either. And now I have Emmett." She glances over at him and he reaches back with one hand to where she sits cross-legged on Bella's couch while he is sprawled on the carpet at her feet. "I have regrets, and Carlisle should have asked, but . . . " She trails off. "Anyway, Carlisle is the guilty father when it comes to Edward -- never really disciplines him enough, and Edward presses that advantage."

Emmett is hiding a slight smile, and Bella thinks Rose may be white-washing her own self-presentation at Edward's expense. She is also struck by the fact Rose tells this story differently from the way Jasper told it. Jasper had implied that the whole faux-family front had created problems in and of itself, while Rosalie still uses family terminology to speak of the coven, and still calls Edward Carlisle's son.

She wonders how Edward views it all -- realizes he's never said.

"Anyway," Rosalie is saying, "I couldn't take it any more -- Edward's self-involvement and condescending attitude, Carlisle's guilt, Jasper's sulking, Alice's meddling, and Esme's tendency to apologize for everybody. So we moved out." She pauses. Bella waits. "I think I had to get away from them," Rose continues after a moment, "before I realized how much I'd _needed_ to get away in order to heal. We've lived apart from them before but it was always for just a few months, or a couple years. This time, we left with no stated intention of going back. I needed that -- to be free."

"But you did come back," Bella says to prod Rosalie's construction of reality a little.

Rose sighs. "Edward talked to you finally. It's the first positive sign I've seen out of him in ages. And even if -- or I suppose when -- we move here, we won't move in with them. I'm not sure that's a good idea. All of us under one roof like that just makes life into a pressure cooker. We can live near them; we don't have to live with them. A little distance keeps the peace."

"But they're family," Emmett says and looks back at us over his shoulder. Bella thinks he might elaborate, but he doesn't, and she realizes that -- for Emmett -- there is explanation enough in those three words.

* * *

**A/N:** The story of Old Man Pritchard and his son is based on a real-life event that occurred in a small town about the same size as Gatlinburg in the early 1930s. I wish I could say it's unique, but there are many more stories just like it.

**Feedback is adored! Thanks to everybody who reviews so regularly!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes:** What of the mother who is not their mother? There's a hidden side to Esme. Please note, there are images of Esme's cabin via the link at the bottom of this chapter. And there is (finally!) a hint of Edward/Bella here.

* * *

Esme knows she is not really their mother; she has never been confused about that. At the beginning, she hadn't even pretended to the role. Carlisle had been her husband and Edward her younger brother. When Rose had joined them, Rose had called herself Carlisle's cousin. In fact, it wasn't until some years after Emmett had been turned that the then-five of them first posed as a family, and calling her "Mom" and Carlisle "Dad" has never been more a joke. She is just Esme.

Yet over time, she's come to _think_ of herself as the family matriarch, rightly or wrongly. Some of that owes to the fact she is the only one who was married before her turning and even the six years she has on Emmett feels significant, although those same six years are less so with Jasper. Like Carlisle, Jasper has too many vampire years for her to mother him much, but as Alice considers herself a daughter, then Jasper has become a son-in-law by default. It has always been Edward, Rose, Emmett and Alice that she feels a mother to.

Sometimes, however, she wonders if her mothering instinct is just suppressed guilt. She lost her baby, and whatever Carlisle says, a part of her has always blamed herself. If she hadn't left her husband and been on her own with never quite enough to eat, or if her milk had come in sooner, her son might have been stronger. If she'd not been so tired -- able to stay awake and keep an eye on her baby -- he might not have succumbed to a lung infection. If, if, if . . . "If wishes were horses, we'd all ride," her mother had used to say when she'd been a girl. But she can't escape these doubts. She failed her son. She won't fail the rest of them.

Except she already has. Her family is scattered -- only one left -- and she wonders if her partiality to Edward was too transparent? Did it drive away the rest? She's not even sure why she feels partial -- maybe just because he was first and has always seemed to need her most. She can't remember the face of her newborn. Instead, she thinks of Edward. He lost his mother (and father too, but it was his mother he was closest too). So they each filled roles for the other, but maybe after 90 years, it's become a little unhealthy. Normal sons grow up, get married and leave home -- start their own families. "A son is a son till he takes a wife; a daughter is a daughter all of her life." Edward has never taken a wife, and whatever Esme said after he found Bella, however she tried to make the human girl welcome -- she didn't fight much when Edward decided to leave. Esme knows her shadow side was glad because she wasn't ready to lose her son to any girl.

Now Bella is back in his life (assuming one could say she'd ever been out of it), and she is coming to Helen that Saturday afternoon, brought by Rosalie. Esme scurries around, making sure the adaptations are in place to accommodate Bella's wheelchair: a ramp that fits over the porch steps, smaller ramps up to the front door and over the sliding-glass rails. Runner rugs have velcro affixed to the bottom so they won't ruck up, and Esme has moved back chairs that block free passage. Edward has prepared the downstairs bath with holds; it's not as if they ever need to use it for more than hand-washing themselves, and Esme knows that Edward wants the message clear -- Bella is welcome here.

He'd be sweating now, if he could. As it is, he paces around the little log cabin, gnawing on a knuckle, looking for anything he's missed. It's not a large house, not like their usual homes. With just the two of them, they didn't need much. There are three bedrooms -- one for each of them plus a guest room that has, until recently, never been used. The cabin boasts an open floor plan so the den slides into a dining area that opens onto a kitchen behind a bar, and the ceiling stretches two stories above with the second floor mezzanine overlooking the den below. Esme has decorated it all in rustic earth tones to match the cabin with comfortable couches, low lighting, and hand-crocheted throws (done by Esme herself). And a moose theme. Esme likes moose (and not just to eat). Only Edward's grand piano speaks of upper-class parlors, but where Edward goes, the black Bösendorfer goes. He won't tolerate any other model. It takes up half the den. The rear wall is paneled in glass and the double back porch overlooks the Chattahoochee River. In fact, from the lower level one could almost step off the stones down into the water itself. The upper level has tables and chairs, and both levels are strung with white lights and hanging plants. Edward and Esme like to sit out on the top as evening falls. The porch roof angles such that it keeps the setting sun from glittering on their skin.

While Alice and Jasper were there, then Emmett and Rosalie too, the small space was cramped, but Esme didn't mind. Jasper and Alice aren't here at the moment, having returned to Minnesota to close down that house and pack. They won't be living with her and Edward, however -- nor will Emmett and Rosalie -- but just having them back in the same town makes Esme happy. Nonetheless, she is aware that this reconstitution owes to no effort of hers. It owes to chance, Edward's decisions about Bella, and Rosalie's choices in response to that. If the spotlight is never something Esme seeks, when it comes to her family, she can't help but feel sidelined. If she can't mother them, then who is she? Esme fears that she is losing her own identity. In the world in which she grew up, a good woman was a good mother. Esme knows it is different now, but it isn't so easy to slip the noose of childhood social expectations.

The buzz of Edward's phone sounds loud in the busy silence of the house. He pulls it out and glances at the ID. "Alice," he says and flips it open. "Yeah?"

He listens. Esme can hear Alice's soprano even from where she is checking the fridge for food to feed Bella. "Don't let Rosalie start any explanations!" Alice pipes. "Jasper and I are stuck on I-75 just south of Chattanooga -- accident. We'll be an hour late."

"What explanation?" Edward asks.

"You'll see. Just tell Rose to wait for us to get there. We need to be there."

Edward's expression is baffled. "Okay," he says.

"Bye!" Esme can hear the click even as she can also hear, in the distance, the rumble of a car coming down their gravel driveway.

"Rose and Emmett," she says.

"And Bella," Edward adds. He looks down at himself, inspecting his clothing. He's changed three times already -- now wears a light-weight fern-colored sweater and chinos.

"You look fine," Esme tells him. "That green compliments your hair."

He frowns and says, "She just wants to be friends." It's been his mantra for two weeks.

"But _you_ don't," Esme replies. Her smile is gentle. Even if she is (in her heart of hearts) jealous of Bella Jackson, she feels for her son. He is so in love, it shines out of him like the flame inside a lamp. "There's nothing wrong with hope, Edward."

He shrugs with one shoulder. The approaching car would be audible now to human hearing and Esme passes him to open the front door, watch as Emmett's latest jeep (which they drove from Nashville) pulls up behind Edward's SUV. The rear passenger door is perfectly aligned with the walk and both Rose and Emmett hop out. Emmett goes to the back to pull out Bella's chair and unfold it, reattach the wheels as Rose speaks to Bella in the backseat. Emmett brings it around, holding it while Rose lifts her down. The jeep seats are too high for Bella to do it herself and Esme can hear Bella say, "Y'all need to buy smaller cars." Her voice betrays a tell-tale twang from living in the South for the past eight or nine years, and even though Esme has seen pictures of her since she left Forks, those pictures aren't the reality.

Bella isn't a child anymore. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Esme has still been thinking of the just-barely-eighteen-year-old Bella she last saw in the flesh. But twenty-seven-year-old Bella has a leaner face, a woman's body, shorter hair, and strong, lined hands that maneuver her chair with practiced ease. Esme is struck by the realization that Bella is now _older_ than Esme was when she was turned.

She senses Edward at her shoulder and glances up at his face. He looks so young -- too young for this self-contained woman. Esme knows appearances are deceptive -- all surface, not reality -- but she can't help but feel a surge of protectiveness. She swallows it and turns to face Bella, forcing her lips into a smile. "Bella!" she says. She feels so fake, and hopes Edward is too distracted to notice.

Edward has stepped past Esme, a wide (and rather goofy-looking) grin plastered on his face as he makes his way down the path. "Hi," he says, hands shoved into his pockets. Bella looks up at him and smiles back. And there is . . . there is _something_ there. Esme would swear to it. Some spark still. Bella may have been married and loved her husband (by all accounts), but a first love is still a first love and there is something in Bella's face, a subtle lightening and softening. She smiles up at Edward and for just a moment, the two of them exist only for each other, outside time.

Then the bubble breaks. Bella looks past him towards Esme and the ramp up to the porch. "Wow," she says. "You're prepared."

"Of course," Edward says, and nods to Emmett. "He built it."

Bella throws Emmett an easy smile. "Thanks," she tells him. Esme bites her tongue because if, yes, Emmett built the ramp, it is Edward who went meticulously through the cabin downstairs, checking to see what Bella would need for mobility.

Emmett -- bless him -- nods to Edward. "I just followed his instructions."

Bella glances back and forth between them, and if Edward can't blush anymore, he gives a fair imitation with his head down and feet shuffling. Esme can see that Bella is no fool; she reads his actions, not the lack of blood in his cheeks. "Thank you," she tells him, but doesn't dwell on it, just scoots her chair past him up the ramp as he steps aside.

And now she is face to face with Esme, who offers Bella her hands, leaning down a little. Bella reaches up to take them. Bella's hands are warm, and encased in fingerless gloves that she wears to prevent blisters from wheeling herself around. Her grip is strong, even if it still feels like a butterfly's touch to Esme. "I am so glad to see you," Esme tells her -- and she means it. Even as she doesn't. "Welcome."

They all go inside, and with Alice's plea in mind, Esme finds things to keep Bella busy while Edward pulls Rose aside to tell her what Alice said. Esme can hear them even if Bella can't. "Why should I wait on her?" Rosalie demands.

"I don't know," Edward says. "She asked us to."

A grunt answers. "_What_ever."

"What are we waiting _for_ anyway?" Edward asks. "Why the meeting?"

Abruptly he pauses, and must have peaked into Rosalie's mind because she hisses, "Stay out!"

"Sorry," Edward says.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, Rose, I am. I can't . . . I can't help it. I can't control it."

"Learn!"

"What the fuck do you think I've been trying to do for the last hundred years? Do you think I _like_ hearing every goddamn stray thought people have? Jesus H. Christ!"

And this is the old argument. Edward has been telling Rose this for eighty years, but Rose doesn't seem to understand -- or won't understand. "You like it," Rose hisses now. "Maybe not every stray thought, but you _rely_ on it, Edward -- don't bother denying it. You rely on being able to read people's minds so you can dismiss the rest of us as lesser mortals -- or immortals. We _tire_ you with our plebian little concerns."

"That's not true -- "

"Don't lie."

He stalks away from her and Esme feels sorry for them both . . . because both are right. Edward doesn't want to hear -- yet can't help being annoyed by what he does hear. He has never been like other boys. Or men. Perhaps even less so than Carlisle, and because he isn't typical, he suffers for his difference. That's why he occupies a special place in Esme's heart. It's hard for Edward on so many levels, only some of them as a vampire.

In any case, Esme is showing Bella all through the downstairs, including the bathroom. Bella stares at the grips and other adaptations. "You went to a lot of trouble for a day visit," she says. Her tone is neutral.

Esme watches her. "We hope it won't just be once. Edward made sure we knew what you'd need."

"Esme -- "

"It was no trouble, Bella." Her smile is a little sly. "You're likely the only one to actually make _use_ of this bathroom."

Bella glances at her with eyes that are knowledgeable and wise. "It isn't the trouble that worries me," she says, and again, Esme is struck by the fact that this Bella sees more like Esme sees. Not a child, not a child . . . not anymore.

"Alice and Jasper will be here in about five minutes," Edward says, poking his head in the doorway.

"Alice and Jasper?" Bella asks.

Esme moves so Bella can exit. "They went back to Minnesota, and are driving down." In a moving van, but Esme doesn't add that. She still isn't sure what this "family meeting" is about, except that it's brought Rosalie back, and Jasper and Alice too -- and Bella.

Edward is right outside, and he smiles at Bella. She smiles back. Once again, Esme is struck by that elusive _something_. Despite all that Bella has been through -- some of which Edward put her through -- and all that Edward has suffered as a result, they can smile at each other with a heart-stopping sweetness. Bella is here and Edward is happy, and Bella looks like she might one day remember what happiness is, too. Esme wants to howl, even as she wants to crow in triumph because Edward has waited, and done what he thought best for Bella and now -- finally -- he might be rewarded for his selfless patience. She desires it as much as she dreads it.

They go back out to the little dining nook and find places around the table. Bella occupies one end because it's easier for her chair, and Edward sits at the other end so he can stare down the table at her without being completely obvious. Esme gets Bella something to drink. A few more minutes pass before another vehicle -- much larger and heavier -- is pulling up outside. Emmett rises to go and greet Alice and Jasper, and just a few minutes later, Alice dances in, her eyes alight as she kisses first Rose, then Bella, then Emmett and Edward and Esme. "Thank you for stalling," she whispers. "I know Rose doesn't understand. She will."

Emmett and Jasper follow after to take seats, and they are all together again at last -- lacking only Carlisle. Esme feels his absence acutely. Rose is glaring at Alice, but it's not really hostile. Bella seems to be waiting on Rose. Esme watches everyone with a mother's attentiveness.

Rose begins then, laying out her plans with a lawyer's cool precision -- what has brought her here and why Bella is involved, and Esme loses focus on anything but Rose's declaration: _"We're planning to start a shelter for battered wives."_ Those words hit Esme hard below the sternum, driving the breath out of her and buzzing like a thousand bees in her ears. Numbing.

Rose looks right at Esme. "We'll need to find a house big enough, and renovate it for our purposes. Can you . . . could you help?"

Rose knows what's she's asking -- the full import of it. If the others have been impatient with Rosalie at times, even dismissive, Rose and Esme share a quiet understanding. They have known the fear of a man, and violence at a man's hands. Esme is not so quick to judge Rosalie.

"Yes," she says now, and it isn't Esme Cullen speaking, or Esme Platt. It is Esme Evenson, battered wife. Battered wife who _left_. "Yes, I will help."

* * *

**Notes:** Images of Esme's log cabin can be found in the link in my profile.

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes:** Alice observes.

* * *

Alice sees how it could be. Not always how it is.

That is her personal, mortal sin because seeing how it could be, she wants to make it happen. Jasper must remind her that Adam and Eve fell from grace not because they wanted to be bad, but because they wanted to be _good_ -- "like unto gods." So they ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, not the tree of immortality. Alice understands. She knows the futures that would make those she loves happiest -- and she wants it for them.

"You can't take away their free will," Jasper reminds her, "even if it means they make mistakes."

Alice doesn't like that, though. She doesn't like watching those she loves suffer needlessly. (Well, needlessly in her opinion; Jasper says there is a lesson in everything.) So Edward's choices have been very hard for her to stomach until recently, even though she knew Bella was happy with Mark.

But now . . . oh, the possibilities now . . .

She must sit on her hands at the table so she doesn't wriggle too much in anticipation of things that are -- even if all goes well -- still months before coming to true fruition. Months are nothing to her and today could be the start of it all, the birth of a new life. It's not just Edward she's thinking of, either. Her family is back together at last -- all but one. More to the point, they have a purpose beyond mere continuing existence. Boredom is all too easy for vampires. That's why some become hunters, like James. Others seek power, like Jasper's Maria, or the Volturi. Still others seek perfected knowledge in this field or that -- like Jasper. But it's hard to keep one's self sufficiently occupied and also maintain the mandated secrecy. Some vampires have been known to lapse into complete inactivity, sitting still so long -- not thinking, speaking, or even hunting -- that they turn to stone. Personally, Alice finds this hard to believe; there always seems to be something new to explore, but she also realizes she's a young vampire, as vampires go.

Nonetheless, to find purpose is hard for vampires, and Alice is convinced that cruelty arises as much from boredom as from twisted psyches. The Cullens have lacked a higher purpose as a whole. Individual members might have a purpose, like Carlisle with his medicine, and they've all got hobbies. But as a family? No. And really, being a _family_ is itself part of the problem; she agrees with Jasper about that. In order to pass, they've been forced to truncate the potential purpose of most of their members. In real human families, even those with teenaged kids, the purpose for the children is to learn the skills necessary to survive as adults. But the "children" in their family don't need that -- haven't for decades. To attend yet one more high school is the equivalent of sitting down and turning to stone. They've had no _purpose_ except survival. So in falling apart, they might have -- ironically -- found purpose enough to come back together. A mission.

And all right, maybe Jasper _does_ have a point that there can be a lesson in even painful things. If Edward hadn't left Bella, she wouldn't have jumped, wouldn't have met Mark, and wouldn't have gone on not just to college but to graduate school. If she hadn't met Mark, Edward probably wouldn't have been able to stay away, and Rosalie wouldn't have got fed up and left, only to realize it wasn't really Edward or Carlisle she was angry at in the first place. They'd still be playing high school students somewhere, perhaps with Bella added to the mix.

But now --

"So what -- exactly -- is involved with this shelter?" Edward is asking from his place at one end of the dining table.

Rosalie looks to where Bella sits at the other end, letting Bella lay it out. "A battered women's shelter is a crisis center for victims of domestic violence -- primarily women and children. They provide emergency housing, emergency transportation, legal advocacy, food, clothing, referrals, counseling and financial assistance. Most major urban centers have one, and there's been a trend recently towards establishing them in rural areas, usually serving an entire county rather than a specific city or town. They work with the local police, social services, family courts, churches -- it's a fairly extensive web of connections. In addition to the shelter itself -- which is traditionally at a hidden location to protect the women from abusive spouses -- they may have a public center that offers services to the wider community and some have transitional houses where women stay as they learn to cope on their own. Part of what keeps a lot of women in these violent situations is a lack of options -- or the fear that options are short-term only. So she goes to a shelter for a week or two . . . then what? Transitional houses and vocational counseling are designed to help women make a new life."

Edward is frowning. "Even if the shelter itself is hidden, what stops their husbands or boyfriends from showing up on their doorstep and beating the shit out of them later?" He glances as Esme. "Sorry, I know, language."

It's Rosalie who replies. "Ever heard of a restraining order, Edward? The threat of arrest?"

"That's not going to stop some of these men."

"Well, no," Bella agrees. "Shelters also assist with relocation, even to another state -- "

"State borders can be crossed -- "

"What is your problem?" Emmett interrupts, glaring down the table at Edward seated on the end. "You think it's useless just because there's danger from some of these jokers?"

"You're thinking like a vampire," Jasper adds, speaking more calmly. "We're used to being undeterred by much. Human men -- even violent ones -- still fear. In fact, one might argue they're violent _because_ of fear. A strong man doesn't need to fight; a weak one does."

Clearly frustrated, Edward rubs his forehead. "Of course I don't think the concept's useless. I'm just trying to be realistic here. It can be a good idea and still have obvious problems. Yes, I realize restraining orders and hidden locations can be effective, maybe even effective most of the time. But there's always one, and one is all it takes."

"Takes for what?" Bella asks, cutting off what would have been a sharper retort from Rosalie.

Edward doesn't answer -- can barely look at her, just stares at his hands. Alice knows what he fears . . . and why he won't verbalize it.

Bella waits almost a full minute, but seeing he isn't going to answer, shakes her head. "There's no way to guard against everything," she says. "Violence happens -- up to and including the death of clients or of shelter workers. Other problems crop up, too -- things that have nothing to do with angry husbands or boyfriends. There've been shelter workers found guilty of fraud, sexual abuse, or playing community politics at the expense of their clients. Sometimes militant ideologies get in the way of actual service -- all those things can be just as damaging, you know. But that doesn't mean we give up on the idea. Having a shelter is better than the alternative. When things go wrong, you clean it up, you don't shut it down. And none of these problems are new; there are strategies in place for dealing with them. And violence can happen _inside_ the shelter, too, not just outside. Kids who come from violent homes learn violence. My advisor Lorraine has a scar on her arm from a knife cut she got from a thirteen-year-old girl who didn't like the shelter rules where her mother was staying."

"Well, at least we wouldn't have to worry about getting cut by knives," Emmett says.

Edward is watching Bella but speaks to Emmett. "No, we'd just have to worry about going mad with bloodlust and murdering everybody in the place if somebody just slices a finger." Emmett clearly hadn't thought of that, and his face falls. "Not to mention none of us really knows a thing about handling a crisis like that, or half a dozen other things we need to know."

"I think I know a thing or two," Bella snaps, and it's the first time Alice has seen her lose her temper since the discussion began.

"All right -- how would _you_ stop an angry thirteen-year-old with a switchblade?"

Bella slips a hand into a small pocket on the side of her wheelchair just below the right arm and pulls out her keys, holding up a little silver cylinder attached to the chain. "Pepper spray," she says, dropping the key chain on the table. "Not pleasant, but effective." She looks calmer now, back in control; it is Edward who appears caught off guard. "My skin may not turn back knives, but I've learned to cope. Don't see the chair and assume I'm helpless. It's a common mistake."

Edward looks away again. "It's not the chair," he mutters.

"It's not?" Bella's voice is more dubious than curious. Rosalie appears ready to pounce, but restrains herself. Alice shoots Jasper a glance but he stubbornly shakes his head. He won't intervene until and unless he has to.

"Bella, you were a walking accident back in Forks! And you're . . . humans are fragile! It's not the chair!"

She tips her head, but still doesn't look angry. "Because I'm not a vampire, I shouldn't engage in anything dangerous? What about all the other humans who do dangerous things? Are they not fragile too?" She pauses for a moment, but Edward's lips are pursed and he still won't look at her. Nobody else in the room attempts to moderate. "Oh, wait, it's that it's _me_? Klutzy Bella can't be trusted -- "

"Yes, I care about _you_!" Edward explodes finally, looking at her at last. His whole face is both stiff and intense at once. "I don't want anybody to be hurt but they're not . . . you're _you_. I care about _you_."

Alice might have expected Bella to lose her temper finally at that. Rosalie looks set to, and even Esme has opened her mouth, but Bella just _grins_ -- which gives everybody pause. "Thank you," she tells Edward. "I understand your concern. I even appreciate it. I know this _isn't_ a project without risk, but it's a reasonable risk." She flicks her eyes to Rosalie. "And I want to do this."

"It's not even your area of specialization!" Edward protests, looking baffled, perhaps because she's neither agreeing with his caution _nor_ getting angry. "You've been studying communication breakdowns between genders. You want to do research on how men and women communicate and don't communicate in the workplace! That has nothing to do with running a women's shelter!"

Bella bursts out laughing, which makes Rosalie stare, Emmett raise his eyebrows, Esme tilt her head, Alice suppress a little giggle, and Edward appear even more confused than he was before. Only Jasper doesn't react. "Have you been reading my seminar papers, Edward?" Bella asks.

Alice -- who knows Edward very well -- can _feel_ the embarrassment radiating off him even if he's not blushing. "Er, not exactly. I just . . . remember, I said I used to ask Mark what you were studying?"

"You're a terrible liar." Bella fetches her keys from the table and slips them back into the pocket of her chair. "And yes, that is what I want to study. But wouldn't you say communication breakdowns are at the heart of domestic violence? They're not the only thing, but they're a major contributing factor. People who haven't been taught how to use their words resort to fists. I've been in the middle of difficult and volatile conferences before, Edward, when I was helping organize Difficult Dialogues for the college. Directing a women's shelter may not be what I want to do for the rest of my life, no, but it's good experience and a worthwhile project while I finish my dissertation. I don't think the potential danger is all that great -- especially not with a few vampires living in the vicinity." She smirks. "And I really like the idea of being in at the ground level, helping _build_ a shelter, set its course. That's _exciting_, don't you think?"

It strikes Alice that Bella really _does_ know a thing or two about difficult dialogues. She has skillfully managed each of Edward's outbursts, deflecting and directing him until he revealed what lay at the heart of his objections. Then she acknowledged his fear, thanked him for his concern, and moved right past it without dismissing it like Rosalie, or even Emmett might have done. Dismissing Edward only makes him angrier.

Now, he doesn't look happy, but he also doesn't look like he can think of anything else to throw at her -- although he'd like to. Esme leans forward where she sits beside him and lays a hand over both of his, clenched on the tabletop. "Bella's right, Edward. We can help protect her. I'd like to be involved with this. I'm not sure how yet besides helping to get an emergency shelter ready, but I want to be involved. And Rose will undoubtedly be in and out, working on cases."

"And me!" Alice says, sticking up her hand and waving it as if she were still in high school. This is it -- the moment she's seen. It's coming together right here, right now. "You'll need a business manager. I remember you in math class, Bella." Alice wrinkles her nose in play. "We don't want you keeping the books or the IRS would be convinced there's embezzling going on even if there isn't!"

Rather than look affronted, Bella laughs, but doesn't have time to reply before Emmett says, "I'll be the bouncer." He rocks his chair back on its hind legs. "Anybody causes trouble and they'll have to answer to me."

"It's a shelter, not a bar," Edward says. He still appears disgruntled, but has relaxed subtly. Alice bumps Jasper's elbow.

"I don't have a lot to offer," Jasper says, looking as much at Rose as at Bella. "But I do have some experience at dealing with crisis situations, and I can help calm down anybody who arrives really frightened -- or really angry. It's good to have a security guard, but even better if we never have to fight at all. Less chance of having our secrets revealed -- and less chance of bloodshed too that could result in . . . unpleasant consequences."

Bella has listened to all this with great interest, and perhaps a bit of surprise. But now everybody at the table -- including Bella -- is looking at Edward. "What?" he asks. "I can't do anything useful for this project. You want me to play show tunes on the piano? Lead campfire sing-alongs to Kumbaya?"

Rose sighs explosively, and both Jasper and Emmett resist rolling their eyes. Alice thinks she might have to make the obvious connection for him but it's Esme who speaks up. "No, _Dr._ Masen." She is smiling fondly. "I suspect a shelter might need a clinic, which would need a doctor to come by for periodic checkups and emergencies."

"Of course!" Rose says, as if only now realizing that.

"I'm not Carlisle!" Edward snaps. "I can't practice -- "

"Yes, you can," Alice blurts, her knowledge of the future blurring for a moment with the present. "Yes, you can. I know you can."

"I'm not . . . I'm not that kind of doctor! I'm a neurosurgeon, not a pediatrician! That's Rosalie!"

Bella seems quite startled by this revelation -- whether that Edward is a neurosurgeon or that Rose is a pediatrician, Alice isn't sure, but Alice is focused on convincing her stubborn, mulish brother. "Not in this life, Rose isn't. She's our lawyer this time around. She can't suddenly display a knowledge of medicine too or people will get suspicious."

"Not to mention my medical degree is forty years old now," Rose adds.

"And even a neurosurgeon has a regular M.D. behind the specialization," Alice tags.

"It'll look odd," Edward says -- but Alice can see he's wavering. Truth is, he _has_ always wanted to practice . . . just been afraid to try. "A brain surgeon signing up to work a clinic at a women's shelter?"

"You can volunteer a few hours a week," Alice says. "It won't look odd because you're Esme's brother, so there's a perfectly logical reason for you to do it." Alice gives a little nod of her head.

"Why aren't we waiting for Carlisle?" Edward asks. "He'd do it."

"Carlisle isn't here," Esme says in her soft voice. "You are. And we can't volunteer him for something he isn't aware of." She studies Edward a moment. "Of course you don't have to do this if you don't want to." Alice starts to protest, but Esme grips Edward's hand again and asks, "Are you afraid you might slip?"

"I could," Edward says. "You know I could."

"You won't," Alice says definitively, as certain of this as the rest are that Carlisle wouldn't slip. "You've gotten much better since Bella." She glances down the table. "Just being around her and _not_ killing her has made you enormously stronger. You couldn't have done it before, but you can now. I've seen it."

Edward meets her eyes and she can feel the delicate fingers of his mind sifting her thoughts for what she's seen. She won't let him see everything, but she lets him see that. It breaks through his final barrier and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "All right," he says at last. "All right. I'll . . . help set up the clinic and be your on-call physician."

**"Yes!"** Alice squeaks, pumping her fist in the air.

They have the core of their staff. They have their mission. They have a joint purpose at last.

* * *

**A/N:** "Dr. Masen" isn't a typo. :-) And it may be a week or so before I can get up the next chapter. I apologize in advance!

**Feedback is adored! Thanks to everybody who reviews regularly. It's really encouraging. Over 100 reviews!  
**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes:** Emmett rules. That is all. :-)

* * *

It is Emmett who drives Bella to Jacksonville for Christmas.

The Cullens wouldn't hear of Bella taking a bus, but she can't afford a plane ticket and won't let them buy one for her. Edward, of course, immediately offers to act as chauffeur, but the next time Rosalie visits her apartment to discuss shelter particulars, Bella says, "I hate to ask, but I'm just not ready to spend a long car ride alone with Edward. Will you take me?"

Rosalie's expression is distracted if apologetic. "I can't. I have to be in court on the 22nd in Nashville. But I'll loan you Emmett."

"He won't mind?"

"Of course not."

"I still don't like it that you won't just let me take a bus. It wouldn't be the first time, and it's less inconvenient for everybody -- "

Rose stands immediately to cross to Bella's chair and bend down to grip her shoulders. The distraction in her expression has disappeared. "You are _not_ an inconvenience."

Bella quits objecting because it's Rosalie telling her this. Of all the Cullens, Bella can count on Rosalie to be bluntly honest. "Okay."

And that is how Bella finds herself strapped into Emmett's jeep, her chair and bags tossed in the back and the wind whipping her hair as he drives (too fast) down I-95, headed south. He sings to the radio, which is playing something country by Alan Jackson. Bella has learned to appreciate a wide variety of music since high school, similar to how Edward once described himself: eclectic. She doubts Edward's eclectivism includes MC Lyte and Rascal Flatts, however, but thinks he would like Alison Krauss. Bella is not, herself, a musical connoisseur. She just likes what she likes.

"Do you ever listen to rap or hip-hop?" she asks Emmett now.

He glances over at her briefly, then turns back to the road. "Not 'specially. But if you wanna play some, that's all right by me."

"No, I was just curious."

"Alice sometimes listens to a little hip-hop, but not much. Me, I prefer old Hank Williams. And I don't mean Junior. I know it's a cliché, what with me being a country boy, but that don't change the fact I like him."

She smiles and looks out at the speeding countryside. "I think our musical tastes must be formed young. Edward used to talk about the changes he's seen in music. He doesn't like rap either. I don't mind it myself, but _I_ can't listen to Hank Williams, Sr."

"I reckon you're right about preferences being learned young, though I've learned to like some things."

Bella chews this over; she has become increasingly interested not just in who the Cullens are, but in who they were. "What change has been the strangest for you, Emmett? I mean, you've seen a lot of things change since you were turned. What was the hardest to get used to?"

She expects him to say something about a black president or women in positions of power or gay marriage, but he surprises her. "How easy it is now to learn things. That's a big one. When I was a kid, the nearest library was over 50 miles away -- and we didn't have a car. Hell, hardly anybody did. If it wasn't in the Bible or in a book in our schoolhouse or the preacher's library, or in a newspaper, we just didn't _know_. And we had no idea how much we _didn't_ know, neither. I'd barely been out of my own home county -- never mind out of Tennessee, much less America. Now, I go turn on the TV, or log onto the internet, or even just walk downstairs to Jasper's library. It's all right there -- almost anything I wanna know. Now the problem is too _much_ information and figuring out what a body can believe. Sometimes I just . . . it's easier to tune it ALL out -- pretend the world hasn't changed. But that's no good."

"Wow," is all Bella can think of to say at first. Then she adds, "At least you got to live through the changes. That must help."

Emmett nods. "It does, it does -- as long as you don't fight the changes. But sometimes you don't _like_ the changes. Sometimes you do." He pauses to pull his cell phone off his belt holster and hold it up. "This? It's the best thing ever. Not just the telephone, but a phone without wires. I can talk to almost anybody, almost anywhere, anytime. A GPS? I'm good with directions, but even I get lost sometimes. Now, I don't. And ESPN -- I get sports all day! What's better'n that?" He grins and Bella has to laugh, but she knows he isn't being serious about ESPN. About the cell phone and GPS, he is.

"So," she asks, hesitantly, "what changes don't you like?"

Again, she expects him to focus on the obvious cultural changes, but again, he surprises her. "How isolated people are. It's . . . it's sad, Bella. When I was growing up, all my relatives lived nearby, and I knew everybody by name inside twenty miles, maybe inside thirty. That's not always good. I mean, forget having a secret." He chuckles. "But in another way, it was. You need something, you got a good dozen people right there, ready and waiting to help you out. People now -- they move off to a city where they don't know another soul. That was true back then, too, but less true. There's just no substitute for a smile and a hug from a friend, or for being able to walk over to a cousin's house and shoot the bull when you're bored. People need people -- real people with skin on. I think so, anyway. I couldn't never live like some nomad vampires. I'm glad to have a family."

"So why did you and Rosalie leave it then?" Bella blurts out. It catches him off guard. "I don't mean that as a rebuke," Bella adds. "I'm genuinely curious. Jasper told me what he thinks -- why the family split up -- and I've heard from Rosalie. But what do _you_ think, Emmett?" She is suddenly very curious what Emmett thinks because he is shrewder than most people credit him. Yet he isn't the intellectual Jasper is, or angry and resentful like Rosalie.

"Oh that's no real puzzle," he says. "We needed space. Everybody was getting on everybody else's last nerve. You get _that_ too, living in a big family, or in a small town, for that matter. Sometimes . . . sometimes you just gotta take a three-day hunting trip, go away so you remember why you don't wanna strangle 'em. Then you come home and it's okay. Or at least better. With vampires -- well, we don't even get to sleep to get away from each other. And time means less. So we needed eight years instead of three days. Now I can see Edward and not want to bash his head in."

Bella would laugh at that, except Emmett looks perfectly serious. "You were that angry with him?"

"Everybody was that angry with him, Bella -- furious. Except Esme, and she was pretty seriously annoyed."

Bella doesn't reply immediately. Her watch timer goes off and she checks it. "We need to look for an exit or rest stop. It's time for me to empty my bladder." She makes a face, but Emmett just shrugs.

"I saw a sign about ten miles back for a rest area coming up in another fifteen or so. Those seem to be easier for you to get into." Next to Edward with his medical background, Emmett has been the most blasé about frank discussion of Bella's bodily functions and special needs.

After another minute, Bella asks him, "Do you think the family would've got back together again if . . . well, if Mark hadn't died?" She hasn't missed how that event was a catalyst.

"Eventually," Emmett says now, sounding confident. "But everybody -- even vampires -- need a change of scenery now and then."

The rest of the drive passes in less philosophical conversation and Emmett pulls up to Bella's mother's house a little after three in the afternoon. Having never seen any of the Cullens except Carlisle and Edward at the hospital in Phoenix, Renee doesn't recognize Emmett from Forks. "This is the husband of my friend Rose," Bella says by way of introduction.

"Mac McCarty, ma'am," Emmett says, using his own surname and an old nickname as he offers Renee a hand while Renee gapes up at the sheer size of him.

Renee knows about Bella's new job, but Bella has been careful in how she explained it to her mother and her mother-in-law. Renee and Charlie rarely talk these days, and Martha and Charlie talk even less, but to be safe, Bella has been selective with names. Rose and Alice are common enough, but Emmett, Jasper and Esme aren't. The name Edward, of course, would be the kiss of death -- not to mention Cullen. But none of them are using Cullen right now. Like Emmett, Edward has reverted to his birth name, and Esme is using it too, as his sister. Jasper is using Whitlock, as is Alice, although when they move, it will be easier for Jasper to present himself as Rose's twin again, to offer an easy explanation for how he and Alice are involved in the project.

Bella, Rose and Esme together concocted the basic story they're using to explain how it all came about and later that evening over dinner, which includes Emmett -- Renee insisted and Emmett (bless him) manfully agreed -- Bella tries it out for the first time. "So you said you went to college with Mac's wife and this other woman?" Renee asks.

"That's right," Bella says, helping herself to more chicken-and-rice casserole. "Well, I had more classes with Anne" -- Esme's middle name -- "but Rose was in this one we took that had a group project. Rose and Anne already knew each other, and I knew Anne, so the three of us worked on the project together. After school, Rose went to Vanderbilt law school and Anne moved to Atlanta. We kept in touch, so Anne got a hold of me when Rose called her about this idea. Anne's brother just finished medical school at Emory, so he's going to be our part-time clinician." Bella carefully avoids his name. "Rose's brother is married to a woman with a business degree, and she's going to be our business manager."

"Keeping it all in the family!" Renee remarks, laughing. Phil is too busy eating to pay attention. He and Emmett have been discussing baseball, in any case, and Bella is grateful that it's just her mother listening for this initial test-drive. Renee is a less _critical_ listener than Martha. Not that Martha would have any reason to suspect anything untoward, but she'll ask more questions. Even Edward has agreed to be just "Ed" if a name couldn't be avoided. "Ed Masen" won't raise eyebrows -- possibly not even Charlie's, or Jacob's. Bella must be the most careful with Jacob when she talks to him on the phone. He and Irene would be in Dawesonville before she could say "werewolf" if he knew Edward and the Cullens were back in Bella's life.

That annoys Bella, because she is quite old enough -- and shrewd enough -- to make her own choices. The only protector she needs now is herself.

After dinner, Emmett heads out, and Bella finds a moment to apologize to him for having to eat. He just shrugs it off and hugs her goodbye, picking her right up out of her chair as he is wont to do. Bella likes how he isn't afraid to touch her. "See you next Thursday," he tells her, then is gone.

After the long car trip, and without Emmett and his easy grin about, Bella deflates emotionally. The big house feels empty with just her, Phil and her mother. It reminds Bella of less happy times right after her accident, before Mark entered her life. She doesn't feel whole without Mark, although with the shelter project to concentrate on and the end of the semester, she has been busy enough she didn't have to think as much about it.

Holidays, however, are hell. Family traditions remind her of who's missing, and it's no better at Martha's -- just noisier. Jada is there with her son and daughter. She's newly divorced and Christmas this year is doubly hard for her, Bella thinks. She misses Mark, and can't talk about Roland without bitterness creeping in, even if she tries not to speak so in front of the children. "At least he still wants to be in their lives," she concedes.

"It's more than some men," her mother agrees while she flips through a Bible commentary, preparing her Christmas Eve sermon. They are all sitting at the kitchen table, drinking low-calorie eggnog while Darius plays with Martha's dachshund and Laqueta plays with a wooden nativity set. The figures are painted with dark skin. They're meant to look Near-Eastern, not black, but at least they don't look like they're from upstate Maine. Baby Jesus in his manger is brown, not pink.

"So tell me about this new job," Jada says now, leaning over the table. "Is the salary any good? Are they offering you benefits? Health care? Retirement?"

"I can still get health care through the university until I graduate -- " Bella begins.

"Maybe so, but they ought to pay for it if they're hiring you full time. Just because they're friends, don't let them take advantage of you, Bells. For you, good health care is critical."

Bella resists rolling her eyes. Jada is just looking out for her, and she's always been the most aggressive of Martha's children -- probably a survival tactic from being the middle child. "Health care is in my contract," Bella promises.

Jada opens her mouth to press further but Martha looks over the top of her glasses and says, "Let the girl be, child. Now, do y'all think I oughta read the Luke passage this year or Matthew again?"

"Read the Matthew passage," Jada says. "Everybody likes the story of the kings."

"They're _magi_," Bella says. "Magi were priests, not kings."

It is Mark's standard correction, the one he has to give every year, and -- for a moment -- they all three freeze. Bella can't speak; her mouth is open and her hand has gone up to her throat as if she would crush her own voice box. Jada just stares. Martha, however, nods after a moment and says, "Yes, that's right. Mark couldn't stand it when people got the details wrong."

"That's because Mark was a nerd, Mama," Jada says.

Bella finds herself laughing. And crying. Jada had always used to call her little brother a nerd. "He wasn't a nerd," Bella says now, "he was just -- "

" -- _precise_," Jada finishes. It was how Mark had always answered the teasing.

The next evening, Martha opts to read the Matthew birth story. In the sermon after, she is careful to remind her congregation that the magi were priests, not kings.

It's not until the day after Christmas that Bella can bring herself to visit Mark's grave. Jada drives her, then pushes her out to the stone. Florida soil is too sandy, and the grass under the scrub oak too pocked for Bella to roll herself. Jada says she's going down to Dunkin' Doughnuts to pick up a dozen of Martha's favorite cream-filled. Bella can call her when she's ready to leave. Bella is grateful for Jada's discretion. This is something she must do herself.

It's a nice stone: matte red granite with shiny black accents. It wasn't finished before Bella had to leave after the funeral two months ago. Silk flowers fill the vase, a Christmas arrangement of poinsettias and fern, although the weather is warm today and Bella wears short sleeves. The scrub oak stretching above still has its leaves and Spanish moss chokes its branches. One sprig of curly grey has dropped onto Mark's headstone, half obscuring his last name. It reads Mark Joshua Jac--, as if the tree agrees he was too young and would hide such tragedy. Beneath his name are his dates of birth and death along with "Beloved husband, son, and brother." His father's grave lies beside his. Mark is buried where Martha should have been because Martha donated her spot. Fortunately, the plot beside Mark's is still empty and Martha will rest there when it's her time. It leaves no spot for Bella, but she doesn't think she should be buried here because there is no additional free plot available, and Martha should lie with Clinton. They were married longer. Bella will find another final resting place.

That reminds her of why she is here. "You knew Edward," she says now to the stone. "Why didn't you tell me that? You didn't have to hide it. I loved _you_. I still do. Whatever he promised you, you didn't have to hide it."

Bella wonders if Mark's spirit is listening. She isn't sure she believes in life after death -- but she's even less sure she doesn't. When she was younger, it never occurred to her to doubt the existence of souls generally, even if Edward had doubted the existence of his own. As she aged, she learned skepticism, yet still can't quite imagine that people simply _stop_. That goes for vampires too. The idea that human beings would have souls but vampires wouldn't strikes Bella as even more absurd now than it did when she was seventeen. There are souls or their aren't, but none of this 'humans have them but vampires don't,' she thinks. It is, for her, a non-question. Or perhaps simply a nonsensical one.

"You knew he'd look after me, didn't you?" she continues now. "You knew he'd show up if anything happened to you. You counted on it. What _is_ it about the Y-chromosome that insists you men have to protect your women?"

The tendency annoys her even as it also makes her feel cherished -- and she hates that she likes it even that much . . . that she can still fall so readily into those old-fashioned cultural tropes.

Yet is it really just a male thing? Wouldn't she want to know Mark would've been taken care of if she'd died first? Mark had a mother and two older sisters who'd have looked after him like three female hawks. But if Mark had liked Renee, he'd also recognized she was flighty, and Charlie . . . well, he'd had issues with Charlie. Charlie had lived in Washington State anyway -- a long way from Bella. Jacob and Irene were little closer in Idaho. Perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised then if Mark had worried what would happen to her without him. Who better to watch over her than an indestructible vampire? Worry for a loved one wasn't gender exclusive, or proof of sexism, she supposed.

Now, she finds herself wondering what Mark had thought of Edward? She knows what Edward thought of Mark but had the respect been mutual? Oddly, she could see the two of them getting along in a way Edward would never have gotten along with Jacob.

It suddenly occurs to her that she might have an answer to that.

That locked file of letters in Mark's email account is still there. She never did go to ITS to ask them to open it. In the wake of Alice and Jasper's arrival, it had seemed moot, then she'd just forgotten about it. Now she remembers. Edward had spoken like he'd been in email contact with Mark. Are letters from Edward what Mark had hidden in that file?

She has to know. Even a week ago, she wouldn't have been ready to read any exchange between them that Mark had kept secret from her. Now she is.

When she gets back to Dawesonville, she will make a visit to information technology services on campus.

* * *

**Notes:** Upstate Maine now has the reputation (over even Iowa) as the "whitest" state in the U.S. On the 'black president' line, even a week ago, I'd have been reluctant to guess (and then allude) to who'd win this election, but I think the numbers are fairly compelling. I'm not advocating voting for anybody, but since this is in the future, some things I have to guess. :-)

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes:** Edward!Muse wants his say ...

* * *

_Where's Esme? Is she . . . is she still angry? I thought she wasn't angry?_

Edward can hear these thoughts clearly as soon as Carlisle gets a good look at who is waiting for him at the end of the tunnel out of customs for international flights. Carlisle's step has faltered and he seems hesitant -- probably no surprise. The last time Edward faced Carlisle he'd yelled at, then cursed him. That is, in fact, why he's here now instead of Esme.

He waits until Carlisle is even with him, then says, "Esme's not angry. Is that all the luggage you have?" He nods to Carlisle's computer case and carry-on. Carlisle nods in turn.

"Why isn't she -- "

Edward holds up a hand, then straightens his shoulders and looks Carlisle in the eye. "I need to apologize -- and do so immediately." Because if he doesn't, he won't have the courage. It would be so much easier just to let it be understood. Carlisle is already looking down and shaking his head, a slight smile on his face. Edward can hear him thinking this isn't necessary. "It is necessary," Edward protests before Carlisle can even vocalize it. "What I said to you eight years ago -- it was inexcusable."

"It was honest," Carlisle says quietly.

"It wasn't fair -- "

"Maybe not. But it was honest. That's important. And I'm not so sure it wasn't fair."

"Carlisle -- "

Carlisle makes a gesture for them to move out of the way of others and they begin walking. He seems tired even if it can't be physically, and Edward takes his computer case -- not because it's heavy to him but because it would be heavy to a human with a carry-on too, and would look funny for Edward to leave Carlisle carrying both through the large Atlanta airport. After so many years, such small gestures have become second nature. They don't discuss what Edward said until they are in Edward's car and Edward is out of the parking garage, headed for the Perimeter north around the city. Yet Edward can sense the turmoil in Carlisle's mind.

"You, and Rosalie, had -- have -- a right to be angry with me, Edward," Carlisle says finally. His voice is soft. "I didn't ask either of you first. Or Esme. I just changed you. I had no idea, really, what I condemning Rose to live with, the trauma of it. Or you. You lost both your parents at once. You said I'd played God. That was a fair accusation."

"Maybe," Edward said. "But I'm not sure I had the right to make it. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I've played God too. I thought I had the right to decide who lived and who died once." Edward's jaw is hard.

"I made you -- "

"No, Carlisle. You _turned_ me, but you didn't make me a monster. I did that all on my own. And don't tell me we all have to make our own mistakes. I could have walked in your footsteps. Instead, over a hundred people are dead because I played judge, jury and executioner. I _ate_ them."

Carlisle sounds pained. "Edward -- "

"_No._" It's decisive. "I'll never make up for that. Some mistakes we learn from, but some go beyond redemption. If you made any mistake, it was in thinking I was good enough in the first place."

"I don't believe anybody is beyond redemption, son."

"I'm not your son, Carlisle." But it's not said cruelly. Edward's voice is gentle, maybe a little tired.

"You're the son of my heart," Carlisle replies. His voice is stubborn.

Edward can't speak for almost a full minute. Finally, he says only, "My main point is that there's a big difference between playing God in order to condemn someone, even if I can read minds to know his guilt, and playing God in order to _save_ lives. I've no right to judge you, and I'm sorry I ever did." He pauses, then adds -- because a simple admission doesn't feel like enough -- "Will you forgive me?"

Carlisle is smiling faintly and turns to look out the window. "I forgave you a long time ago, Edward. We won't talk about it again."

By the time they arrive at the cabin, it is dark out. Esme has on all the Christmas lights and the drive down the winter-bare roadway is a wonderland passage through a tunnel of a twinkling LED in purple and blue, white and gold. Edward could wish for snow on Christmas, but this is Georgia. It snows only a handful of times a year.

Esme stands on the front porch, waiting. Edward wonders how long she's been there. Probably since he called half an hour before. She wears an old-fashioned white dress with a scooped top and blue lace. Her arms are bare. Despite the cold, she has no need of a jacket. Beside him, Edward can hear Carlisle drag in breath and he glances over. The other man's face is alight with hope. Edward stops the car. "Go on," he says. "I'll be back tomorrow morning sometime."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. I still have Christmas shopping to do anyway."

"Oh!" Carlisle says, as if Edward has reminded him. "Let me get my bag. I've . . . I've brought something back for Esme." He hops out as Edward pops the SUV back. Grabbing his bag and computer case, Carlisle slams the hatch, then is gone up the lane at vampire speed. It makes Edward smiles as he backs his car into a neat 3-point turn and heads out. He shops, then he hunts, although he's not really hungry. He is mostly looking for something to do so he doesn't have to think about what Carlisle and Esme are doing even though he vacated the premises so they could do it without any need to conceal noise or worry about his mind-reading. The cabin is small. Sometime around two in the morning, he quits chasing night creatures because he's bored and finds an open hillock in the national forest that spreads north of Helen, lying back to star gaze. Orion has moved past zenith and is chasing the Bull towards the western horizon, and giant Betelgeuse glares a baleful red-orange from the Hunter's eastern shoulder.

_"Orion is a-risin', you can see his stars a-blazin' in the middle of a clear-eyed country sky. And it's never too surprising that the sky is still amazing, way out here where nothing hides it from my eyes . . . "_ Edward sings softly. It is something he learned years ago during one of his high-school stints. Alice had made them all sign up for chorus, then slipped it to the teacher that Edward was "a great pianist." He'd wanted to kill her, as he'd been forced to suffer through bad show tunes and cutesy songs deemed wholesome for kids. The song about Orion had been one of the less annoying ones, along with Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi." (And if the Counting Crows remade that, he'll forever remember it in Mitchell's bell-clear voice with less orchestration. Edward is a fan of simplicity.)

He wishes he could sleep. When he'd first been turned, he'd been thrilled by the notion that he'd never again have to waste precious time on sleep, but he'd been very young then, eager for more of life. Now, he has it, and if presented with one human attribute he could reclaim, he'd choose sleep. While eating together is important to human socialization, he can fake it when he has to and otherwise, human food no longer appeals to him. Sleep, however . . . to be able to erase _hours_ of tedium by periodic unconsciousness seems like the most blessed of graces now.

He returns to the cabin later than he'd planned. It's almost noon, but the day dawned overcast and he really _did_ need to Christmas shop before the rest of the family descended. Alice and Jasper have found a little apartment in downtown Helen above a corner shop where Alice plans to sell knitted scarves and shawls and other textile art made by local craftswomen. The recession hurt Helen's tourism industry badly, and the little shop has stood empty for almost a year. Alice is renovating it with Esme's help and expects to open in the spring. Acting as business manager for the shelter won't take all her time, and they need a public contact point in any case. Besides, the shop boasts a large, finished storage basement that Jasper fell in love with for his ever-expanding library. They promised to come over that evening to greet Carlisle, but Emmett and Rose won't be arriving until tomorrow as Rose had court cases. It will take her several months to close them all or find other lawyers willing to take them. Rose is surprisingly protective of her clients. But perhaps Edward shouldn't be so astonished by that.

Part of his penance in recent years has been to review his oft-troubled relationship with Rosalie, and he's given more thought to something Emmett told him almost forty years ago now: he and Rose are too much alike to live comfortably in close proximity. At the time, Edward had been insulted, seeing only the surface. They have virtually no common interests; they don't like the same music, same movies, or the same books, and haven't voted the same in most national elections. They aren't just oil and water, they're ammonia and bleach -- deadly when forced together in a closed room.

But he sees now that wasn't what Emmett had meant at all.

He and Rosalie were both only children, born to privilege and doted on by their parents. They were told young that they were special, destined for greatness, and learned to expect it. They are stubborn, and each war unconsciously to be at the center of family attention. Rose has never forgiven Edward that she was turned FOR him, like Eve made for Adam from his rib. Trust Emmett to see the essential truth, and as long as Edward and Rose don't have to live under the same roof, Edward thinks he can finally live _with_ her peaceably.

To that end, he has been amassing a collection of real-estate clippings as Rose and Emmett asked last time they were in town. When they arrive the next day, he drives them around to show the various properties. Winter is a good time to view them, as they're visible in all their naked glory, or their naked imperfections. Rose has more than halved the (relatively small) stack of clippings by the end of the afternoon. There are only three she's even interested in calling a realtor about, but that will have to wait until after the holiday.

Alice is relentless in her cheerful determination that this first Christmas together in ten years will be full of all the joy and hope of the season. Edward might feel more of both if Bella weren't in Florida, but she has family to visit -- and they're not the Cullens. "She's still saying goodbye to Mark," Alice tells him on Christmas Eve while she sits beside him on the bench at the piano as he plays a meandering medley of carols. "Besides, she'll be here for New Year's. And Emmett brought fireworks from Tennessee."

Edward grins. "I saw that. There's a veritable _mountain_ of them in the garage. I think I should be worried."

"But you're not. You and Jasper are both champing at the bit to blow things up too. It's a male thing. Testosterone poisoning."

"I don't have testosterone anymore."

She just lifts one delicate eyebrow. "You absolutely _do_ -- or whatever the vampire equivalent is. I wish Carlisle hadn't had to turn you boys before you were past your hormone-pumping peak."

He is grinning and continues to play. "Women also have testosterone, you know. It even affects them more strongly."

"We have it in much smaller amounts. And Rose and I -- Esme too of course -- were all turned _after_ we were done with puberty. Women mature faster, _little_ brother."

He snorts, more because she expects it than because he disagrees with her. As a doctor, he is well-aware that he was turned while his body still hung between boy- and manhood; even his brain had been changing. Emmett and Jasper had both been further along that road. There is little more annoying, Edward thinks, than being a teenager for eternity. Age has given him perspective and education, but he still has the adrenal glands and brain development of a seventeen-year-old.

He brings down both hands on the keyboard in a discordant crash.

"Temper, temper," Alice says fondly. "I'm just teasing you."

"I know. But it's also true. I'm never going to grow up. Not really. I'm _stuck_, Alice. My brain will never finish maturing. My body will never stop pumping ridiculous levels of cortisol and testosterone -- or whatever it is we have now. I _know_ that. I was barely seventeen when I died."

She slips an arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. "You make being a teenager sound like it's a fatal illness."

"It's not?" He's only half joking.

Alice sighs. "No, Edward. And you're not really a teenager. Yes, in some ways, you still are, but you're also manifestly _not_. Biology isn't destiny. I don't believe that."

He sighs and pulls his hands off the keyboard into his lap. He stares down at them. "Biology has more of an impact on our behavior than most people want to admit. Reduce the serotonin in a person's brain and he becomes depressed. Give someone epinephrine and she'll become anxious and her heart rate will jump. Pump someone full of androgens and he becomes aggressive and emotional. Leave too many nerve connections from childhood in the pre-frontal cortex and a person stays impulsive, lacks judgement, and can't focus on anything for an extended period. Those last two sound familiar?"

"For you? Actually, no. An inability to focus was never your problem, Edward. Yes, sometimes you're more impulsive than the rest of us, but you've been speaking in generalities. You're Edward -- a specific, not a generality. Besides, you told me once that you started maturing a little before other boys your age, so maybe you're further along the path than you think? Add to that over a century of living experience and you're not seventeen, Edward. You're in a category all your own. You never acted like a teenager _until_ you met Bella, who happened to be a teenager too. She's not anymore. She grew up. And so has your love for her -- I've seen that myself."

"Visions aren't -- "

"Not in visions. I've seen it with my own two eyes when she came to the house before the holidays. She wasn't acting like a teenager -- and neither were you. You might have been acting like a stubborn, thick-witted mule, but that's something else again."

Edward smiles faintly at that. "Maybe."

But he feels a little better.

His improved mood also owes to the fact Bella will be back soon, and she promised she'd spend New Year's with them. It'll make it easier for her to work with Rosalie and Esme (and Alice) on plans for the shelter before she has to bury herself in reading for comps and orals. The days until her arrival _crawl_ by, although Edward struggles to be good and not snap at his family. He even manages to scrape up some enthusiasm for the presents they've bought him. The holiday is peaceful, even hopeful. Edward had forgotten what hope felt like.

Bella will arrive on the 30th, although she returns to Dawesonville on the 28th. She wants a day or so in her own bed, and to do laundry, she says. Edward would happily do her laundry for her, and must force himself not to drive over there and haunt her, even if she wouldn't know he was there. He refuses to let himself return to his old stalkerish behavior.

"Why don't you just _call_ her?" Rosalie suggests, glaring at him with clear frustration. "And stop _moping_. I thought you'd grown up, Edward. Here" -- she pulls out her cell phone and offers it up -- "she's on speed dial 7."

He rolls his eyes and walks away, calling back, "I have my own phone, Rose." Bella is number one on his speed dial. After some inner struggling, he does call the day before she is to arrive. His pretense is to see if she wants him to drive over for her tomorrow. She'd turned him down on driving her to Florida and he half expects her to tell him 'no,' now too. But she doesn't. "Sure, that'll be fine," she says instead. Then, "How was your holiday? How's Carlisle?"

"The holiday was all right," he answers, although he doesn't add that it was all right because he knew he'd get to see her soon. "And Carlisle is fine. It's . . . well, I apologized to him, and I understand Rose did too. So things are . . . not perfect, but a lot better."

"That's usually the most we can hope for," Bella says, her voice tinny through the earpiece. "'A lot better' is still good."

He wants to object, but she is right. Everything in his life is a lot better these days, and he is as close to happy as he's been in a long time.

"So is Carlisle staying then?" Bella asks.

"Staying? You mean staying at the house? Well, yes -- "

"No, I meant is he moving back? Everybody else seems to be."

"No," Edward replies. His voice is a little sad. "He can't just bail on MSF; he made a promise to serve for a certain amount of time and it's hard enough to get anybody willing to go into Afghanistan these days. He can't just leave them in the lurch unless it's an emergency. That region is desperate."

"I thought he was in Africa?"

"He was -- is. But he just signed a contract to be relocated. He's promised to serve one year, and he'll be shipping out about a month after he gets back to Zimbabwe."

"Wow, winter in those mountains. Not a good time to adjust."

"For a human." He smiles.

"What's he doing after his year is up? Does he know yet?"

"Coming home," Edward says. He doesn't add 'finally.'

"I'm glad for Esme."

"She's been singing almost nonstop since he got here."

"Singing?"

"That's how we can tell how happy she is. The more she sings, the higher the Esme Happiness Quotient." Bella laughs and he grins to hear it. "I'm sure you've heard the old saying, 'If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy . . . "

Her laugh cuts off. "I thought you all were going to stop playing that game, Edward?"

"What game?" He is confused.

"She's not your mother."

He pauses. "I know. But she's still the matriarch -- more or less."

"She's younger than I am," Bella points out. "Physically, anyway. Does that make me the grand-matriarch?"

"It's not the same," he protests. "And you're only older by a year."

She doesn't reply to that, just says, "I'll see you tomorrow, Edward. Don't come over too early. I'll get dinner here so y'all don't need to worry about feeding me."

He doesn't like the notion that she'll probably eat something shoved in the microwave that isn't very good for her. "I could take you out to eat?"

"No, that's okay."

He starts to object, but then lets it go. _Slowly,_ he reminds himself. _Slowly._ "I'll see you tomorrow. Plan on me being there around six."

"Will do. Bye."

"Bye," he says and closes his phone, then holds it against his silent heart for a moment.

* * *

**Notes:** "Orion" is a folksong originally written by James Zimmerman. My older sister (who happens to be in a wheelchair) used to sing this song to me ALL the time when I was a kid. I've been looking for a way to include it as a little tribute to her. It's a lovely environmentally-conscious song. MSF Médecins Sans Frontières, or Doctors Without Borders. It always struck me as a charity Carlisle would subscribe to.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes:** Edward fetches Bella for New Year's; a conversation ensues in the car.

* * *

It is exactly 6 o'clock when Edward knocks lightly on Bella's door. "Come in! It's open," he hears her call.

He enters, suppressing his dislike of the fact she left it unlocked. "If I know somebody's coming over, it's easier than me racing for the door," she'd explained to him once. "And Dawesonville isn't exactly the crime capital of Georgia, Edward." She has a point, not to mention that auto-locks -- so popular in larger cities -- are a nuisance for a complex that caters to the elderly and disabled. Residents forget their keys, or the door slips shut, locking them out, or it can't be held open for easy wheelchair, crutch or walker access. Edward knows the rationale. He still worries. He doesn't tell Bella this.

Her bags are packed and sitting by the door but she's in the kitchen, washing dishes. It's a modified design with low counters and space beneath them for her chair. "Can you get the bags while I finish up in here?" she calls. He does as she asks, and by the time he returns, she's ready to go, already outside and locking her door. She wheels quickly out into the parking lot; he doesn't have to slow his human stride much.

At the car, they face the uncomfortable task of getting her into his Audi. He's already looking into having the car modified for her, but doesn't want to do so too soon. Today, he will have to pick her up just as he did the night Mark died and a handful of times since. It's an excuse to touch her, but he knows it makes her uncomfortable. She always holds herself stiff.

Or she did before. This time . . . _this_ time, for just a moment, she relaxes against him, even turns her head to look up from beneath dark butterfly lashes. He is so startled that he stops cold with her halfway from her chair to the seat. Their eyes meet. Hers are gentle brown like a doe's. He has no idea what his own look like -- probably black and wild. She smiles and reaches up with a hand to touch his cheek. It is feather light -- a fingertip laid on his cheekbone -- but it _burns_ him. "Poor Edward," she says gently. "I'm sorry. This must be hard on you."

_You have no idea,_ he thinks.

"Do I still smell like T-bone steak? Or rock lobster?"

"100-percent prime, aged Amana rib-eye," he replies, made momentarily stupid by her delicious proximity.

She laughs. It's music. It also breaks the tension. "You can put me down now."

He does so, strapping her in before she can open her mouth to protest that she isn't a child. Then he turns away. His hands shake as he breaks down her chair to store it in the back beside her bags. He takes several lung-fulls of cold, night air, but it's not to clear her scent from his nose. It's to steady his limbs.

Things are awkward between them at first and Edward fears she is regretting having agreed to let him pick her up. He leaves the music on and wracks his brain for something to talk about, then lands on the obvious. "How was your visit home?"

"Good," she replies, rambling for a while about her mother and Phil, then about Mark's family. He listens and asks a few questions to keep her talking. He loves the sound of her voice, its steady, low alto. He would keep her talking forever. After a while, she winds down, then looks over at him. "You're actually listening to all of this?"

"Of course," he replies, smiling although his eyes stay on the road.

"I figured you'd be bored by now."

"Not at all."

"If I asked you a difficult question, would you answer it honestly?"

He slides his eyes sideways. She has turned slightly to regard him. "I'll try?" he says.

He isn't sure what he expected her to ask, but it isn't what she does ask: "What change has been the strangest for you, since you were turned? What was the hardest thing to get used to?" He blinks and must look surprised because she adds, "I asked Emmett the same thing on the drive to Jacksonville. He gave an interesting answer."

"Oh? What did he say?"

"Oh, no, no -- no cheating. I want to know what _you_ think."

He shakes his head. "That wouldn't be cheating, Bella; I was just curious. I doubt we'd have the same answer because our lives before we became vampires were very different." He falls silent and several miles pass before he says finally, "What I find the hardest to get used to probably isn't what I think the biggest _change_."

"Huh." She twists more fully to look at him. "What would you say is the biggest change?"

"The _speed_ of change itself. Do you remember that book that came out in 1970? _Future Shock_ by Toffler?"

Bella grins. "Edward, I wasn't _born_ yet in 1970." If he could blush, he would. This Bella is enough older that he forgets her age. "But I do know the book you're talking about, yes. Go on."

"Toffler defined 'future shock' as 'too much change in too short a period of time,' which leads to emotional distress for those who suffer it. Basically, it's information overload. To add to that, vampires invariably suffer massive paradigm shifts because of how long we live. A paradigm is a pattern or model of the world that's held by a particular group or subset of society."

"Yes, Edward, thank you -- I do know what a paradigm is." Despite the sharpness of her words, she's almost laughing and, again, if he could blush, he would.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Just remember, I'm not seventeen anymore. And even back then, I'd have been able to define 'paradigm.'"

He grins. He can't help it. He likes how assertive she's become. It sits well with the stubborn streak and independence she'd worn like a coat too big for her then. She's grown into it since. "Anyway, the inevitable paradigm shifts are bad enough, but they come so fast now, we have no chance to get used to one before another comes along. I grew up in a slower world, Bella."

She doesn't reply to this immediately, just thinks it over. The occasional white streak of passing headlights going the other way breaks the black monotony. His vampire vision allows him to see the shadow silhouettes of pines, and the draping kudzu smothering the roadside fences. Now and then, there is a red or yellow glow from animal eyes. They are halfway to Helen already and he lets up on the gas, his desire to stretch out his time with her warring with his need for speed.

"Okay," she says finally. "So what's been hardest for you to get used to? You talked like that's different from what you think's changed the most."

"It is." Then he chuckles. "You want a complete list?"

"That many things, huh?"

"Honestly? Yes."

"Mostly culture, I assume?"

He glances over. "Not entirely, no, although some of it is, yes. Remember when I was born, and when I was turned. Women couldn't even vote yet then."

"I haven't forgotten. That's why I'm curious about this." She pauses, then goes on. "Did you support women's right to vote?"

He almost winces. "Ah -- will you hate me if I say, 'no'?"

Her eyebrows fly up almost to her bangs. "You _didn't_?"

"Bella, my father was a conservative lawyer in Southside Chicago _before_ the Depression, when Jackson Park was still a bastion of white privilege. Of course we didn't support Suffrage. My father turned Progressive just to vote for Teddy Roosevelt over Woodrow Wilson in 1912, then voted Hughs in 1916, even though he knew Hughs would lose. He couldn't stand Wilson, fairly or not. Of course, 'Republican' meant something rather different then. You didn't ask if I changed my mind later."

Her lips curl up. "Did you change your mind later?"

"Absolutely. I even voted for Hillary Clinton in the 2008 primaries."

She laughs. "Good answer when talking to a Women's Studies grad student."

"An honest answer too," he says, slightly miffed.

"I'm kidding you, not making fun of you." She tilts her head. "Before, in Forks, I barely scratched the surface of who you were, didn't I? Maybe it was my age, but I just didn't think a lot about what you'd seen in a hundred years of life. Now . . . well, I've seen change myself, so I'm curious. I mean, you lived through two world wars, the cold war, the Summer of Love, Vietnam, Watergate . . . all of that happened before I was even born." Another brief pause. "Where were you when you heard Kennedy was shot? They say people don't forget where they were."

"I don't forget anything," he reminds her. "But I was in high school at the time. It was just after lunch -- a Friday. Kennedy was shot about 12:30 in Dallas, but that was central time and we were living on the east coast then. A little after two o'clock, the principal came over the loudspeaker to tell everybody what had happened, but there was no confirmation yet as to whether the president was alive or dead. My math class turned into total chaos -- everybody talking at once. I didn't find out Kennedy had died until later that afternoon when we got home. We sat around, glued to Walter Cronkite on CBS. There was something calming about his voice in all that controlled panic. Of all the news anchors I've heard in my life, his voice will always say 'NEWS' best to me. But news traveled slower then, with just bits and pieces getting through. Compare that to when Challenger blew up on national television in 1986 -- or the attacks on 9/11. In 1963, we didn't have that."

She nods. "I remember when the twin towers went down. It was before school even started that day, out in Arizona. My mom kept me home. We had no idea what was going on and she wasn't about to let me out of the house. We spent all day sitting on the couch, watching CNN."

She shifts even further in her seat until she's watching him side-on; she uses her hands for leverage since her hips won't move her. She grins. "I like this -- hearing you talk about things you've seen, even the macabre. I just read about this stuff. You _lived_ it."

He shrugs.

"Will you tell me more?"

He glances her way. "Sure. What do you want to hear?"

"D-Day. Tell me about D-Day."

He pauses, reaching into his memory, then begins, "We got radio reports from John Daly on Columbia News that night, repeating what he'd heard from the Associated Press in London. It was _hours_ after the invasion began, but that was still pretty fast back then. If news was slow in 1963, imagine what it was like in 1944 . . . "

She listens, rapt, as he relays his memory of the day the Allies had landed on Normandy Beach in northwestern France, beginning an invasion that would end the war but leave two-thousand, five-hundred dead. They pass the rest of the trip like this -- Bella asking for accounts of the famous historical events he'd seen.

"I feel like Wikipedia," he says finally as he turns onto the path that leads to the house. But he likes it. He likes the way her dark eyes watch his face while he talks. He likes that she's interested in his impressions of things. It makes him feel important.

"Oh, no, you're much better than Wikipedia," she says. "I _trust_ you." Then she shuts up as they drive beneath Esme's tunnel of lights. "So _pretty_ . . . " she whispers.

But Edward is still back on the _'I trust you,'_ part. She couldn't have given him a better Christmas present if she'd tried. Maybe there really is a chance for them, no matter how long it takes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes:** Bella has a private conversation with Carlisle. Only some of it involves Edward. Later, there are fireworks. Bella pushes Edward to follow his dreams.

* * *

Carlisle returns to the table where Bella is waiting and sets her coffee in front of her -- cream, only a little sugar. "Does it ever get easier, Carlisle? You must have lost people you've cared about?"

"You learn to live with it," he says softly, seating himself in the chair beside her at the little round bistro in a corner at the town's new Starbuck's. After living in Washington State, Bella is addicted to their coffee, pricy or not. In Helen, everything is pricy, she's learned.

"Some days, I get up and don't immediately think about him," she says. "Then something . . . even a song on the radio, or finding extra toothbrushes he stored, or buying his favorite food in the supermarket . . . I've stopped eating pork because he always preferred it to chicken. Isn't that crazy?"

"No, not at all. But there may come a time when you'll eat pork specifically _because_ he liked it. Grief may have patterns, Bella, but no rules. Don't worry about being abnormal in how you go about it."

She nods and sips hot liquid. She doesn't speak immediately, just looks out the large glass front window at passing traffic and shoppers seeking after-Christmas deals before shops close early on New Year's Eve. She asked Carlisle earlier if she could talk to him in private, and as 'private' is a little hard to find in a house full of vampires with super-hearing, he'd suggested they go out for a while. Some of what she wants to ask him involves Edward, but mostly, she just wants to talk to somebody she can look up to as a parental figure. At twenty-seven, she finds it difficult to see the others that way any more, even Esme. Jasper comes closest, but Carlisle, with his over three-and-a-half centuries of life, still feels older.

"You know the funny thing?" she says finally. "When Edward left me, I went into a sort of . . . zombie state that looked more wounded on the surface -- "

"I know, and I am so sorry. If we'd known how it -- "

"It's okay, Carlisle. Well, maybe not 'okay,' but it's water under the bridge. What I meant is that I acted more dramatic then -- I jumped off a _cliff_, for pete's sake -- but this . . . it _hurts_ so much more . . . " She trails off as she closes her fist in front of her heart. Her throat has closed too, to hold in a sob. Her eyes burn. Finally, she goes on, "It's the kind of pain I didn't know existed. It's not that I _didn't_ hurt when Edward left me -- of course I did -- but that compared to this? My whole life changed in the blink of an eye when Mark died. Some days, I don't know if I'm coming or going. I'm just . . . numb. But a completely different kind of numb. Maybe I've gotten used to picking up the pieces, I don't know, or living is just a habit, but I keep going. I get out of bed, I get in the chair and I start reading for comps and orals. I pay my bills, I cook dinner. Life goes on; people depend on me. Not like they would if Mark and I had had a baby, but my mom, my dad, Martha . . . I think about that. They lost him; they need me. But inside, I have this . . . gigantic hollow place."

"Please remember, Bella," Carlisle says, "the fact people depend on you means that you have people to depend _on_, too -- people who want to take care of you in turn. Let them. Let us. Perhaps we can make up in some small measure for failing to take care of you before."

Bella gestures dismissively -- she wasn't trying to make Carlisle feel guilty -- and to change the subject, says, "Why _did_ you leave?" Even though she asked Carlisle here to talk about Mark, she can only talk about him in brief spurts or his loss overwhelms her. She dabs her eyes; she doesn't like to cry in public. "I mean, I understand why Edward left, but why did the rest of you go along with it? I can't believe all of you, even Rosalie, would just . . . knuckle under to what Edward wanted."

Carlisle's smile is rueful. "You've assumed we disagreed with his choice."

Bella is surprised. "But I thought . . . Alice said . . . well, she said the same thing, but she told me _she_ didn't want to go . . . "

"Alice objected -- heatedly -- but the rest of us, even Jasper . . . we weren't sure Edward wasn't right, Bella. We _were_ dangerous to you. Of course we didn't anticipate that by leaving, we'd abandon you to Victoria's tender mercies. Perhaps being on our own for so long, living an 'alternative lifestyle,'" -- he snorts at his own joke -- "caused us to forget the essential nature of others like us." In a public place, Carlisle avoids the word 'vampire' even if nobody sits close enough to overhear.

Bella sips coffee and keeps her temper in check. "So. You agreed with Edward that I shouldn't have been allowed to make my own decisions?"

Carlisle seems to realize he's walking on eggshells. "You were barely eighteen and hadn't even graduated from high school. That's a difficult age, seventeen and eighteen -- on the doorstep of adulthood, but not fully an adult. Looking back at yourself, do _you_ think you were old enough to make potentially life-threatening, life-altering choices? There's a reason the age for military enlistment is eighteen, and marriage without parental consent -- even buying cigarettes."

"A person doesn't magically grow up at eighteen, Carlisle."

"No. But the changes we undergo in our teen years are swift and shocking, when you think about it. And I'm speaking as much as a doctor as . . . anything else. Even a year _can_ make a great difference."

For pride, Bella wants to argue with him, but finds she can't. She doubts she _was_ ready to understand the full implications of it all at 17. Nevertheless, "It wasn't fair to 'protect' me by up and _leaving_ without leveling with me. I told Jasper and Alice that, and Edward too."

"And I agree," Carlisle says. "We all thought Edward had told you the truth that evening. In fact, he led us to believe a sharp break was something you'd requested."

"That son of a bitch!"

Carlisle only smiles. "Don't be too angry with him. He's learned his lesson. But in retrospect, I realize we all viewed it too simply -- and not just because we didn't factor in Victoria. We were so used to keeping our secrets, but also so tired of keeping them, we both over- and underestimated you. We wanted you to like us for Edward's sake as well as our own. We wanted to seem normal, or as normal as we could be -- show you we weren't monsters. But we also wanted to protect you from the darker truths. As a result, you weren't scared out of your mind when Jasper tried to attack you -- and you should have been. It began to worry me. _That_ time, nothing happened -- but it could have in the future, and I wasn't sure _you_ fully appreciated that. It's one thing to understand a risk and take it anyway. It's another to . . . to _blow it off_, I believe is the current idiom."

"I didn't do that -- "

"Didn't you?"

And that quickly, Bella is on the defense instead of Carlisle. His gaze isn't harsh, but he grants her no quarter. Just like Jasper had when he and Alice had shown up at her office door, Carlisle is treating her as an adult now, if one still younger than him. "I knew Jasper was just acting on instinct," she says. "I didn't blame him for that."

"Which makes you unique and very special. But if the deer doesn't blame the wolf for hunting her, nonetheless, she does _run_ when she hears wolves. I suppose . . . I suppose we agreed to leave, no matter how we'd come to cherish you, because we weren't sure you had normal self-preservation instincts. In fact, we agreed to leave as a result of coming to cherish _you_."

Bella's raised eyebrow is question enough. Carlisle goes on, "When Edward first brought you to meet us, we wanted you to like us, as I said. But we wanted it for Edward's sake. The _change_ you effected in him was . . . astonishing. He was happy. Nervous, but happy, and we wanted him to stay happy. We weren't, then, thinking about what was best for you." His voice drops and Bella must lean closer to hear him. "I don't think we fully appreciated the potential danger we represented to you. We had measured 'danger' in terms of too many questions, too many suspicions -- danger for us had meant a threat of exposure. But you already knew the truth and accepted us. It made us . . . _uncareful_. If we did practice living among your kind and passing, we weren't used to living with a human in such _close_ proximity. In many ways . . . " He trails off and his eyes have grown soft on her.

"Bella, you represented what we miss -- being human. Whatever gifts we may have in our present state, we find humanity _precious_. That's _why_ we choose to live among you and interact, not just withdraw into the wild. Having you in our _home_, that's how we'd like to live, in an ideal world -- to stand beside you and not be feared. That desire, that hope . . . it made us overlook the obvious**:** we are still dangerous to you.

"The encounter with James's coven illustrated that, but the incident with Jasper illustrated it far more. By then, we'd come to care about _you_ for yourself, not just because you made Edward happy, or because you let us live out our fantasies. We didn't want to endanger _you_. So when Edward insisted that we leave, we agreed to go."

Bella has listened, caught somewhere between irritation and interest. Here is yet another, slightly divergent view of what happened almost nine and a half years ago, and if she has understood that theoretically, every person will have his or her own perspective on events, she's seeing it illustrated here in the concrete. How Carlisle saw matters isn't the same as Jasper's view, or Rosalie's, or Edward's, or Alice's, or Emmett's. She is assembling a decade-old puzzle from their differing angles and realizes there is no single answer.

"So I was your Elsa?" she asks now.

Brow knitting, Carlisle says, "I beg your pardon?" as he switches their coffees at vampire speed. She now has the full cup and he, the half empty one.

"Sorry," she says, "pop-culture reference. _Born Free_ is a story about this lion named Elsa who was raised by humans in Africa, but when she's threatened by other humans, they realize she's not afraid of people like she should be and that could get her killed. She can't live with them anymore, but they decide to return her to the wild instead of putting her in a zoo. They loved her enough to give her up."

His smile shows his teeth. "I remember that movie. And just so."

"There's one problem with the analogy, though." Bella thinks of what Jasper said over a month before. "I wasn't your pet."

The smile falls right off his face. "Of course not!" He says this loudly enough that the heads of others in the little shop turn their way momentarily. He leans forward, speaking earnestly, "We never thought of you like that!" His distress inclines her to believe him. "Esme and I -- I'll admit we sometimes fancied you to be another of our children, but even that . . . we were well aware you had a father. Honestly, Bella, none of us saw you as a . . . a pet. We may have doubted whether you properly appreciated our danger to you, but we left precisely _because_ you weren't our pet, or our toy."

Bella can see that he believes this to be true. And vampires have such long lives, it's natural for them to think they know what's best for those younger, especially when it comes to danger, just as Bella herself wouldn't let Jada's kids play in the street. This parallel lets her forgive Carlisle a little. After all, she asked to speak to him today because she _does_ see him as a father figure, if not as her father.

Reaching out, she lays her warm hand over his cool one. The Cullens' skin isn't really _cold_ so much as room temperature. So when it's cold out, they are too. "Carlisle, all that may have been true for you and Esme, and Jasper and Emmett and Rose -- but for Edward, it was more. He believed I could do better than him, and that I should. He tried to make my decisions for me. That's what parents do, not boyfriends; it's different than worrying about my welfare. If it were only the latter, we could have . . . worked out something that made y'all more comfortable with me. Riding motorcycles is dangerous" -- something that had once drawn her to them, in fact -- "but it's less so if you wear a helmet."

Carlisle sighs. "We did realize that at least some of what drove Edward was his own . . . _inferiority complex_, for lack of a better word. But like I said, we weren't at all sure the basic _decision_ wasn't the right one. We just had no idea he hadn't told you the truth about why he -- we -- were leaving. And we certainly didn't count on Victoria. We'd never have left at all, if we'd known she would track you."

Bella sips her new coffee. It's lukewarm, but this fuller cup maintained the heat better so at least it's not stone cold like the other. "And now?" she asks finally. "Victoria's taken care of. But you've come back into my life. You won't suddenly decide to leave again 'for my own good,' will you?" She makes it mocking. "If so, I'm not sure I'm interested in renewing the acquaintance."

He sits back. "I think we've all learned from the past. What we believed then was . . . naive. Well-intended, but naive. To simply _disappear_ from someone's life does violence to that very humanity we seek to reclaim. Yours, yes -- but ours too." His smile is gentle. "We missed you, Bella." His sincerity makes her smile in return. "If _you_ ever decide that being involved with a coven of . . . us . . . is more danger than you bargained for, we'll be gone before you can say 'Boo.' But we've all stopped presuming to make decisions for you."

"Thank you." The words are wry, but also sincere. "That goes for Edward?"

"It goes for Edward most of all. If you will let us, we'd like to help support you now as best we can. You have a rough year ahead of you, and not just for having lost your husband."

She nods and drinks more coffee. Finally, she says, "Alice and Jasper said Edward still loves me." And if once she'd found it hard to believe someone like Edward could love her -- had found it so easy to believe he _didn't_, in fact, that she'd never questioned his reasons for leaving her -- that was a long time ago. "But I loved -- still love -- Mark."

"Edward knows that." For a moment, Carlisle looks as if he might say something more, then doesn't. They leave not long after to drive back to Esme's cabin beside the Chattahoochee.

When they arrive, Emmett, Jasper and Edward are setting up fireworks on the riverbank while Alice, Rose and Esme call out suggestions from the second-story rear porch overlooking the river. With a quick glance around, Carlisle picks up both Bella and her chair -- "Whoa!" she says -- to trot off the drive and around back, then makes a great _leap_ onto the balcony above. She squeals, Emmett lets out a wild laugh, and Edward shouts with worry. "She's fine!" Carlisle calls back, setting her down on the wooden porch slats.

"Jeez!" Bella says, a hand over her heart even as she laughs a little. "Give a girl some warning next time!"

"It's easier just to manhandle you occasionally," Alice says, plopping down beside her to watch the boys below. "You don't mind?"

"Not really." In fact, she's coming to like how they don't worry so much about offending her. Emmett even got her _spinners_ for her chair wheels for Christmas**:** custom made by he and Rose. She laughed long and hard at that. Trust Emmett to do something barking mad that made her feel _normal_.

"They're going to burn the house down," she mutters while watching the boys below. "That is an _obscene_ amount of fire power. I doubt most is even legal in Georgia."

"We won't get caught," Alice promises. "Or burn down the house, either."

And they don't. It is a joyous evening in fact, and Bella struggles not to be the wet blanket. The Cullens are back together at last, even if some of them will go their separate ways again soon. Yet Bella doesn't belong -- and not because she's the lone human. She has spent most of her adult life in situations where she was the only minority, if of a different sort. No, for her, behind the laughter, behind their delight in explosives and in each other, behind their midnight toast to new hope (even if she's the only one who drinks) -- behind it all stands a ghost. Mark has been dead less than three months and if she said goodbye to him at his grave, she's not ready yet to give up being haunted. She'll cling to whatever she has left of him.

Edward notices her dark mood and takes a break to leap onto the balcony and pull up a chair beside hers for a while. After a moment, as blue, green and gold roman candles explode over the dark rushing water, he asks, "Did Mark like fireworks?"

It surprises her a little, both the mundanity of the question and his ability to guess what she was thinking about since he _couldn't_ read her mind. "Actually, we stayed away from them," she says. "Fireworks can trigger a seizure in epileptics with photosensitive predispositions. Taking Mark to a fireworks display was courting trouble."

Edward covers his eyes with his hand. "Damn. I knew that. Or rather, I knew it was possible. Sorry."

She glances at him. "Don't be. It's a normal thing to ask. We had to explain it a lot around the 4th."

"But I should have -- "

"Edward, stop it. Please just cut out all this 'I should . . . ' lamenting, okay? It gets old."

He drops his hand and studies her in the dark. She doesn't look at him. "If I said 'sorry' for that, would you hit me?"

"Probably. Probably bruise my hand, too."

He laughs. It's a soft, musical sound. "Okay. For the sake of your hand, I won't say it."

They are silent a while as Emmett and Jasper let off a pair of ear-numbing mortar shells. Bella slams fingers in her ears. "Good God! Doesn't that, you know, _deafen_ y'all, with your better hearing?"

"It's _all_ a bit on the loud side," he admits. "But worth it." Glancing her way, he asks, "You need another blanket or anything?"

"I've got four draped all over me," she reminds him. Esme, Alice, and even Carlisle had seen to it that she's tucked in 'as snug as a bug in a rug," Esme had said, grinning. Another few minutes slide past and she debates whether she should ask the question that's been on her mind for a few weeks now. Finally, she gives in. For once, Edward looks relaxed, even happy. "I didn't realize, back in Forks, that when you said you'd been to medical school, you were a _brain surgeon_." She waggles her eyebrows comically to keep him from growing intransigent.

He isn't looking at her, but she suspects he can see her just fine in his peripheral vision. "That's because I wasn't a brain surgeon when I was living in Forks." He taps fingers on his chair as if wrestling internally with something, then gives in and clarifies, "I got my first medical degree in 1948, no real specialization, just a G.P. The second time around, in the '70s, I did internal medicine, but it didn't involve a Ph.D."

"That's what you've spent the last ten years doing? Getting a doctorate?"

"Last eight -- we had to get rid of Victoria first."

"You went to college, medical school _and_ grad in _eight years_?" Bella is astonished. "How did you do that? Well, I guess not sleeping helps."

But he's shaking his head. "I faked a degree in biochemistry and started with medical school; it wasn't like I didn't have the actual education already. Sometimes it's nice _not_ to repeat something. But medical school is hard to accelerate; internships have to be served and classes go in a sequential order. It takes three years, no cheating. Adding the doctorate added extra years. There are different ways of handling an M.D.-Ph.D, but most do med school, then graduate work, then apply for a residency. I didn't do the residency part; I never do, since I can't practice. It's hard enough for me to make it through my internship."

There are a lot of things Bella wants to address, but she settles for the simple first. "Alice said you _could_ practice now."

"Maybe. It's a bit late to apply, though. I finished last spring. I should've been applying for residencies all last year. If I did it now, they'd wonder why I put it off."

"Family emergency?"

He laughs. "Not good enough. Didn't you know? Medical students and residents aren't allowed to have a real life. It's not a forgiving profession."

"So how do you expect to pass the Georgia Medical Board? You can't be our clinician without a license." Bella is starting to worry about legalities.

"Forgery," Edward says as easily as if he were commenting on the weather. "The family's rather good at it, you know. Or actually, I could sit for the exam as long as I forged the documents to register -- although that's tricky, because the board requires documents directly from the issuing source. That is, the school and hospitals where I'd supposedly worked."

Bella considers what he's said. "This could get messy if anything actually happened requiring someone to look into your certification."

His eyebrow has gone up. "Tell that to Alice. And Esme. They bullied me into it in the first place."

She is shaking her head. "How about just doing it the old fashioned way? _Legally_?" He laughs again, but she presses on. "You can't be the first medical student who had something that interfered with his life between finishing school and starting a residency. Just apply this spring, Edward."

"I'd have to work at a teaching hospital, and the closest of those is in Atlanta. It'd be a little hard for me to serve as your clinician if I'm in Atlanta."

"It's going to be a little hard to explain you hanging out in Helen anyway _unless_ you're doing a residency somewhere. We don't need you everyday. If you came once a week, that'd be fine. Most shelters don't even have that; a nurse or physician's assistant is the most they get. They go to a hospital for emergencies -- which is what we'd do too." It's important to her that he _pursue_ something he spent years studying for. "You've wanted to be a doctor for a long time, Edward. You told me that once. You just didn't trust yourself around human blood. But Alice said you can do this now. So _do it._"

He is staring at her. "I look a little _young_ -- "

"You look boyish. We could style your hair a bit differently and put you in dress-clothes . . . you'd pass for at least mid-20s. Too bad you can't grow your beard out now . . . "

He continues to stare. "You're really serious."

"Of course I am. You earned this degree. Use it. It's only, what, a two hour drive from Helen to north Atlanta?"

"If traffic's good," he reminds her. "Double that at rush hour."

"Well, think about it."

And wonder of wonders, she can see he actually is. Instead of producing yet another objection, he stares out into the dark. His jaw is taut, his hands folded together in front of him, elbows resting on the chair arms. He doesn't look at her.

"Should I ask why neurology?" she continues after a moment of watching him.

"Do you need to?" Turning back, he gives a pointed look at her wheelchair.

That's what she'd half-suspected, but, "Please don't tell me you went into it for _me_?"

He just shrugs. "Why not? I had to study something, and maybe it wasn't 'for' you so much as because of you. Inspiration? There's nothing wrong with having inspiration."

And put that way, it doesn't sound quite so . . . _fixated_.

"It's the, uh, well -- the mind-reading too," he adds. "I've always wondered about that, why I can do it . . . I mean from a scientific standpoint. The human brain is a great mystery. Even more, I've realized that being able to read minds, I can tell when a person's brain isn't working correctly, regardless of whether they can articulate how themselves. Telepathy's a great diagnostic tool."

Now Bella feels foolish for assuming she's his only reason, or even his primary reason. He has his own incentives for pursuing neurology. "You should definitely do it," Bella says. "Don't waste the chance, Edward. If you want to be a doctor, then _be_ a doctor."

"I still don't think I could get away with looking old enough."

"Leave that to Alice and me. We'll have you looking 27 instead of 17."

"Oh, really? You can make me look as old as you are?"

"Old?!" she says -- squeaks really, and the rest of the family turns to pay them attention. "Are you calling me _old_, Dr. Masen?!" She's only half-teasing.

"Edward, you are on her shitlist now," Rosalie warns. Alice is laughing, while Esme and Carlisle look amused.

On the bank below, Emmet calls up, "Hey, Edward, I'd beat a hasty retreat, if I were you. We're getting ready to set off the finale anyway. Get down here and help."

Pushing himself out of his chair, Edward vaults over the rail onto the bank below. But before he leaves, he bends to whisper in her ear, very low, "You're still as beautiful as you ever were."

And Bella is astonished because she _isn't_ as beautiful. She's twenty pounds heavier, has brackets around her mouth, lines in her forehead and occasionally, bags beneath her eyes. Her legs are atrophied and she has to wear adult diapers because "dribbling" is a problem. None of these things fit the American ideal. Her open-mouthed expression must be comical, yet Rose -- who's been standing near the porch rail where she can lean over and show Emmett her cleavage -- turns to meet Bella's eyes. Bella is quite certain she heard Edward's parting comment. "He's serious, you know," she says now. Her tone is matter-of-fact, not mocking. "You're his Audrey Hepburn."

"I look nothing like Audrey Hepburn," Bella says, annoyed. But she is also -- just a little -- flattered.

* * *

**Notes:** There is not, in fact, a Starbuck's in Helen (*shock!*, I know). Being a tourist spot that aims for Germanic ambiance, the town resists such chains. But as this story takes place in the near future, I put one there anyway. _Born Free_ started out as a book by Joy Adamson that was made into a movie in 1966, then remade as a TV series that flopped. The original movie, however, is worth seeing, however dated. Emmett's Christmas present to Bella owes to the suggestion of Capricorn75, on Twilighted. It was just too funny NOT to incorporate! What Edward says about medical school is based on what my doctor friends have told me. The way it works, you really can't accelerate it much.

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes:** Bella visits the college ITS department to unlock that mysterious folder of letters she suspects contains email exchanges between her late husband and Edward. But before she can find out what they said, she gets an unexpected visitor.

Edward and Bella _wouldn't shut up _here. Every time I thought I had their conversation edited, they went off on another tangent. So another longish part. Also, if you first found this story or are still receiving announcements for chapters somewhere other than ff-net or ff-net alerts (such as a live-journal Twilight community), would you mind mentioning where in a review? I'm trying to get a sense of where people are coming from. Thanks!

* * *

Bella couldn't get to the ITS department until the college reopened on Monday, January 4th, as all offices had been closed between Christmas and New Year's. Then it took a little sweet-talking to convince the ITS geeks to comply with her request. They'd been willing to open Mark's school mail after his death, but were more reluctant to let her into a separate, password-protected file. "Trust me," she tells them, "I've already found his collection of porn; it wasn't that exciting" -- which makes them squirm, blush and stutter. "This file is password protected because it involves confidential grading information, and we need access to _that_." She offers this lie with a perfectly straight face.

They cave finally. As the techie copies the letters for her, he observes, "There's a lot of stuff in here."

_I just bet there is,_ Bella thinks, but says aloud, "He was a packrat. He kept every letter from a student to cover his ass."

"Probably a good idea, if a little, well, space-hoggish." He hands over the CD. "Can I delete it now?"

"As soon as we're sure we can get into the files. I'll call you."

"Thanks."

She departs, CD tucked safely in her pack, eager to get home where she can read undisturbed.

So she's surprised to find Edward waiting, seated on the stairs beside her front door, a bag between his feet. "What are you doing here?" she asks; she'd just _left_ Helen yesterday.

His eyebrow goes up, then he grins. "You've got comps and orals to read for. I came to make you dinner."

"You drove all the way from Helen to make me _dinner_?" She is astonished. Not to mention annoyed. The CD waiting in her backpack _burns_. "Can you even cook?"

He shrugs and stands. It's artless. "I can cook. And friends look after friends, right? I don't mind driving. I like to drive."

"As long as it's over eight miles an hour." He just smirks at that, and waits while she unlocks the door to her apartment. "At least you didn't break in and wait inside."

"It's your apartment, not mine."

"That didn't stop you back in Forks."

He actually looks hurt. "I . . . it was new to me then, being friends -- or more -- with a human. I came to make you dinner, not invade your privacy."

That stops her halfway through the doorway and she twists her neck to look up at him. "Thank you," she says, touched. He's trying. And she feels suddenly less irritated than she had. As much as it galls her, the CD and its files can wait. He came all this way to do something nice for her, and respected her boundaries in the process.

He looks both pleased and shy at once, giving her that crooked smile she remembers so fondly and looking down at his feet. He's wearing sneakers, she notices, and is dressed simply in old jeans and a sweatshirt advertizing Emory University. His bronzy-brown hair is a mess. "Did you take Esme's convertible?" she asks as she wheels over to the desk, unloading her pack, including the CD, which she tucks into a drawer when he's not looking -- not that he'd know what's on it, but she'd rather be safe than sorry.

He's approached her stereo and pulls out his iPod. "Yes," he answers now. "How did you guess? And do you mind?" He waves the player.

"No, go ahead," she tells him as he plugs it in and chooses something. Edward needs music like she needs books. "And your hair." She points to her own. "It could be introduced to a comb." But she smiles as she says it to take out any sting.

"Oh." He rakes fingers through the mop -- which only makes it worse -- and she bites her tongue to keep from laughing as something low-key and bluesy drifts out of the speakers. Eric Clapton, she thinks. Dressed down and with hair looking like he just crawled out of bed, Edward resembles one of her students more than one of her classmates and that brings her up short. They're going to have to work on his appearance. She doesn't want anybody thinking she's formed an inappropriate relationship with an undergrad -- not to mention she promised she'd age him up for his residency.

"What would you like me to fix?" he asks, heading for the kitchen. She can hear him opening and closing doors in there to see what she has, both in terms of food and dishes to cook in. "Did you eat lunch?"

"Yes, I ate lunch. And I don't care what you fix. If it's in there, I'll eat it, obviously. Surprise me." She hesitates, then asks again, "You really can cook?"

She hears him laugh. "Yes, Bella, I really can cook."

"And it's edible when you're through?"

The laugh gets louder. "I assume so. It's not like I can tell."

"Okay," she replies, picking up the book she's been reading to toss it on the couch before wheeling down the hallway to empty her bladder. It's routine when she's been out a while.

By the time she returns, she finds a mug of something warm and steaming on an end-table near the couch. It smells like cider, which she didn't have in the fridge. "Did you bring me cider from Helen?" It must have been in his bag.

"Yup," comes his voice. She can hear the knock and scrape of dishes being moved around. "It's a little out of season now, but I understand people rave about cider from the area."

"Because it's damn good." She rolls over next to the couch, setting her brakes before going through the process of transferring her body from the chair to the cushion. Sometimes it's nice to sit on something _else_ for a while. Then she takes a sip of the cider, steam tickling her nose, and closes her eyes to savor the taste. "Just the right amount of sweet and tart."

"I'm glad you like it." His voice does sound genuinely pleased. She hears something being stirred and wonders what he found to make, but doesn't ask.

She tries not to think about the fact Mark had used to cook for her.

Opening the book, she starts reading, a pencil ready to mark sections. This is her book, at least; she can't mark the library copies.

She has a lengthy reading list provided by her dissertation committee, covering topics in her specialty as well as related fields. Because women's studies is a program, not a department, graduate committees are composed of academics from several different departments, as suits any given student's program of study -- sociology, communication and anthropology, in her case. But as her research involves men and women in the workplace, she's also taken some business classes and a professor from the business college will be testing her too.

She has set aside six weeks to read nonstop, then, in mid-February, she'll sit for exams. Comps and orals are the hell tests that end a grad student's coursework before she can advance to her dissertation. Each of her professors will provide one essay exam with questions tailored to her specializations. She'll then be given several hours to write, with one test set every other day across a week. About two or three weeks after -- once her professors have had time to mark her essays -- she'll undergo a verbal grilling for a couple hours, covering areas where they thought her answers were weak . . . or over anything, really. Defending a dissertation is about proving one's research skills and preparedness to publish, but comps and orals are a final chance for her advisors to decide if she passes muster enough to be turned loose on students of her own in turn.

Thus her entire academic career -- several years worth of coursework not to mention her future -- hangs on this performance. She's been assured that students usually go in knowing the likely outcome -- "We'd never have let you get this far if we didn't think you capable," Lorraine had told her -- but it's still nerve-wracking. Events in her personal life have only made it more so, and if she knows her committee will take that into consideration, sometimes she just feels . . . _foggy_ . . . mentally. Not all there, and definitely not up to her usual standards. That is WHY, in fact, Lorraine had wanted her to put off these exams, but she can't afford to. It's now or never.

She's become so involved reading, she's forgotten her mug of cider, Clapton on the stereo and even Edward in the kitchen. When he suddenly shows up in front of her bearing a tray with a toasted cheese sandwich and tomato soup, she's startled. "So," he says, sounding apologetic, "it's, uh, not gourmet. But it is warm. And I'm pretty sure I didn't ruin it. I remember, back in Forks, you liked this combination when it was cold and wet out."

Setting aside her book, she grins at the food, then up at him. "Comfort food beats gourmet," she says. "Thanks, Edward. It's perfect."

"My pleasure." He gets her situated with a TV tray and re-heats her cider in the microwave, then sits down beside her to let her eat while he flips through the book she's reading. "_Organizational Communication: Traditional themes and new directions_," he quotes the title. "Sounds exciting."

"It is, actually -- which is more than I can say for most of the business books." Bella takes a bite of the sandwich. He's managed to avoid burning it, at least. "There's an important article in there on what they call 'unobtrusive control,' which can be used positively or negatively. Among other things, they discuss how those in charge employ subtly loaded language in the workplace. For instance, a male boss who refers to his female employees -- or even his female colleagues -- as 'you girls.' That may not sound outwardly insulting, may even be meant playfully, but it still reduces them to child status. Language is powerful; we don't pay as much attention to it as we should."

Edward is eying her with interest. "I take it I'd better not call you 'girl,' then?"

"Not if you want to keep your nuts intact, indestructible vampire or not."

Her bluntness makes him gape in shock, then choke out a laugh. "So noted," he says, setting down the book . . . rather carefully, as if she might find cause to go after his nuts otherwise.

While she eats, he asks her more about loaded language and unobtrusive control. They discuss not only the article she'd referred to, but others in the book as well. It's nine o'clock before she realizes she hasn't got further than the few pages she'd read while he'd cooked, yet she feels energized, and more prepared to talk about the whole topic than she might have after simply reading the collection alone. "You did that on purpose," she says abruptly.

He appears confused. "Did what on purpose?"

"Got me talking so I had to explain it, not just absorb it. We always learn something better when we have to teach it to somebody else."

His grin is wry. "True. But that wasn't why I got you talking. I was interested. You're a good speaker when you're passionate about something. You always were, really, I'm just not sure you knew what you were passionate about, back in Forks. Besides _Wuthering Heights_, that is."

She narrows her eyes. "Don't knock the Brontës. My undergraduate degree was in British Literature."

"I thought it was Women's Studies . . . "

"Hell, no." Bella laughs and runs a hand through her hair. "Although I did get interested in Women's Studies through literature. I wrote my senior thesis on Eighteenth-Century women poets, particularly Anna Seward. She was a Blue Stocking. I looked at the contrast of her public crusades for women's freedoms versus the reticence of her private life. Take her relationship with Honora Sneyd. When Honora left and married, was Anna angry because she was in love with her, or because she disapproved of marriage generally and thought her best friend had betrayed her cause? The language of her poetry is suggestive, but not clear and I know romantic friendships were typical of the time." She narrows her eyes. "Actually, you could probably tell me better whether or not I'm reading too much into it. It's closer to what you grew up with."

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not, too. She died almost a hundred years before I was born, didn't she? But language then -- even in my youth, we were more free with verbal expressions of affection than now. Nobody thought to question it -- 'read into it,' as you say. Perhaps we were just naive, but I think it's what we were accustomed to. A man calling another man a dear and beloved friend didn't imply anything sexual, and two women using such terms . . . well, it was just the form. Perhaps for her it concealed more, but not necessarily. Expressions I'd have used with my friends then I'd be very careful of using now due to the risk of being misunderstood."

"So you'd say I probably am reading into it?"

"I'd have to read what they wrote, Bella. There might be other things there to suggest more than sisterly affection, but as you said, romantic friendships, especially between women, weren't uncommon. I think the popular term now is a 'girl-crush.'"

She can't help grinning at his attempt to colloquialize. "I wish I'd had you around four years ago."

His eyebrow hikes. "I don't think an argument in your paper based on, 'my hundred-year-old vampire friend said so,' would've been considered valid."

She bursts out laughing while he lounges back, stretching out so that his socked feet almost touch her thigh. He looks like a relaxed cat. "Anyway," she says now, "it was working on Seward's stuff that first got me interested in the subtleties of language and women's studies. Despite fighting against social constraints, the Blue Stockings still wrote in fundamentally different ways than their male counterparts. The more I looked into it, the more interested I got in gendered communication and social molding."

"Ah," he says. "You do realize some of it may have to do with the way male and female brains are wired? Women and men communicate differently because they perceive the world differently."

She bites back anger, reminding herself he _was_ born in 1901. "Don't try to justify social restrict-"

"I'm not," he interrupts. "But women and men do have different brain structures."

"Yes, Edward, I did know that." Her reply is sharp. "But I don't believe that makes men inherently smarter than women."

"I didn't say that. Relax." His voice is laconic, and there is _something_ . . . she recalls his old ability to 'dazzle' her and wonders if he's attempting some peculiar vampire mojo to calm her down. "Women's brains gear them to do some things better, men's brains gear them to do other things better. But what these things are isn't necessarily what you'd expect. Women, for instance, have a thicker connection between the two halves of the brain, allowing both sides to communicate more effectively. So women process multiple things at once -- multitask -- or consolidate different sorts of data better. Men, by contrast, have a thinner connection and show better concentration skills and more ability to block out distractions while women are more apt to suffer divided attention. It's a small biological difference, but significant."

"And there's your loaded language," Bella points out. "Divided attention is usually considered a bad thing. Multitasking is a good thing. And do men have better concentration skills, or are they just limited and unobservant? We're back to loaded language."

"I'd say that both things are true for both genders -- it's just the positive and negative sides of the same skill. And which of those two abilities is more desired would depend on the situation, wouldn't it? I don't think it an accident that there are more women event coordinators, for instance. Or that women make better teachers of young children. I suspect being able to keep track of multiple activities at once equips them to ride herd on a classroom full of six- or seven-year-olds!"

"So you wouldn't say it's 'maternal instinct'?" She's inviting him to hoist himself on his own petard.

She thinks he knows it, too, because his smile is sly. "No. Or not that alone. But I would say biology _has_ equipped women to be the primary caretakers of young children in everything from their ability to breastfeed to being able to keep track of a bunch of kids going in several different directions at once. That doesn't mean fathers _can't_ be good caretakers, just that women have an edge in a few areas. Biology doesn't give two figs for equality. It's all about survival of the fittest and perpetuation of the species.

"I think we sometimes wind up forcing a false equality because we're so incapable of of not turning difference into hierarchy. Besides, human beings do a lot of things that are evolutionarily unhelpful. Take corrective lenses. As far as evolution is concerned, the visually impaired should die through accidents in order to take them out of the gene pool. But I'd hardly suggest that optometrists be run out of business in order to improve our genetic stock."

His wry humor causes Bella to grin almost against her will and her muscles relax a bit, if not entirely. "It still sounds to me like biological determinism. What about individual difference? Some men are great multitaskers, and some women can be very focused."

"Absolutely," Edward agrees. "Remember, these are general tendencies. If women _on average_ have a larger corpus callosum than men, there might be more difference between the corpus callosa of two individual women than between that of a particular woman and man. And life experience might gear a man to multitask while it gears a woman to focus better, their corpus callosa be damned. Remember, we're looking at a _median_ out of a spectrum of actual results, and a whole lot of factors affect individual performance. That's _why_ very large statistical samplings are important in any study like this, and you take the median not a mean to avoid skewing results by the outliers. An average is an _average_, not a real-life actual. You've had a stats class, Bella -- you _know_ all this."

And for the first time, he sounds mildly annoyed. She, however, is tilting her head and smiling fondly, bemused to realize he really isn't arguing an ideology here. He might have admitted to a knee-jerk racist reaction at her seeing Mark, and he might have admitted to old-fashioned ideas about the roles of women when growing up -- might even have tried to overprotect her once upon a time. But he's not stuck in the past. For all his stubborn streak, Edward isn't intellectually rigid. And it's been _fun_, she thinks, to debate with him tonight, almost like the wide-ranging conversations she'd used to have with Mark when he'd also pushed her assumptions, forced her to _think_, not just pontificate.

That recognition disturbs her a little.

Sighing, she glances at the clock atop her desk. "Edward, go home." But it's not said in anger. "I still have more reading to do before I go to bed, and with you here, it's too tempting to talk instead of read."

He sighs too, but doesn't argue, just stands and runs hands through his (still messy) hair. "Can I get anything for you before I leave? More cider? Or is there anything you need to have done?"

Eyebrows lifting, she lets her lips curl. "Can you take out the trash?" It's her least favorite chore, and the one most likely to end with trash dumped on the linoleum.

He laughs at that. "Okay." And before she can even reply, he's standing before her again, the (mostly) full trash bag gripped in one hand. She's forgotten just how _fast_ he can move. "Anything else? Want me to help you back into your chair?"

She shakes her head. "No, no -- I'm good. I'm going to sit here a while longer to read."

He nods, eyes dropping down to her useless legs where they dangle. "Who's helping you with your exercises, by the way? You are still doing them, aren't you? It's important to the muscles."

"I know that!" She's surprised by his question, and a little irked because truth is, it has become harder. Mark worked them for her every other day. Surely Edward isn't offering to take Mark's place as a way to get his hands on her? "I go by the rehab center three times a week," she says now, and knows her voice sounds _testy_.

He holds up his free hand in surrender. "Okay, okay -- I was just asking. If you need one of us to help you, we can. I understand if you're not eager for one of the guys to work your legs for you -- it can be a little intimate -- but Rose has a medical degree remember, and Esme took a class in massage once. Alice could also help. Just . . . let us know, all right?"

Bella is mollified, and reminded again that Edward doesn't necessarily have an ulterior motive beyond the obvious. He isn't the same Edward. The Edward she'd known in Forks would've broken into her apartment tonight and waited for her here. He'd have insisted on taking her out for a fancy dinner even if she didn't want one. And tonight's debate was a give-and-take of information, not Edward lecturing her from his lofty mountaintop of education and experience. Rubbing her face, she says, "Sorry. I'm just . . . a little touchy sometimes."

"You don't need to be. We just want to help. I do know some things, but others . . . well, you may need to tell us, all right?" He runs a hand into his hair. "If something's difficult or awkward for you" -- he holds up the trash bag -- "just ask me to do it, or ask one of us. It's not like we get tired." His smile is wry and he drops his eyes. "But we don't want to insult you by offering to do things you're perfectly capable of doing yourself. We -- I -- just . . . don't always know. Being a neurologist doesn't mean I know everything about living with SCI."

Bella suspects that speech was a little bit rehearsed, but his nervous mannerisms while speaking, and his awkward shift from 'we' to 'I' aren't missed by her. He's trying to be frank but sensitive, and that's not always an easy balancing act, she knows.

"It's okay," she tells him now. "And thank you. I may . . . I may take you up on that sometimes."

"Please do. I'm not just offering for show. If you need me to change lightbulbs, or vacuum the rugs or . . . whatever -- just ask."

His earnestness makes her smile. "I guarantee you that changing lightbulbs is something I'd need help with."

He nods. "Then you've got it."

"Thank you."

There's an awkward moment then. He shuffles his feet and she looks off at the desk. It's 9:26 now. "Well, I'd, ah, better go," he says.

"Goodnight, Edward. I'd tell you to drive safely, but you never drive safely, so I'll save the air."

"I drive very safely. I just don't drive _slowly_. Night, Bella. Don't forget to lock your door."

And he's gone. She sits for a while after he leaves, turning over the evening in her mind. It had been surprisingly _easy_ overall, and she isn't sure what to make of that. She isn't sure she's ready yet for things to be that easy between them. It feels like a betrayal of Mark.

She glances over at her desk where the CD waits in a drawer. She's tempted to open it now, but changes her mind. She's waited this long. She can wait till morning.

* * *

**Final notes:** British blues singer Eric Clapton is for British blues singer Rob Pattinson, and so is Edward's messy hair. SCI = spinal chord injury. Most people who live with it just use the acronym and Edward would certainly know it. The chapter Bella refers to in the book is titled, "Communication and unobtrusive control in contemporary organizations," by P. K. Tompkins and G. Cheney.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes:** So . . . that CD of letters . . . ? (This section is short, but might require tissues.) And DESPITE what it sometimes seems like, yes, this story really is E/B in the end!

* * *

The letters aren't what Bella expects.

First, there are a lot more of them than she'd anticipated, even with the tech guy telling her it was a big folder. She's assumed she'd find only notes from Mark keeping Edward abreast of her life and schooling, but it fact there are six solid years-worth of mail here. The folder is positively _bloated_ with testimony to a friendship Bella hadn't realized existed.

Of course, it hadn't started out as a friendship. The first exchanges between them were hostile and protective, or guilty and desperate, full of scolding and apologizing, warnings and pleas. The tone shifted gradually -- two men pulled together by their love for the same woman. _She's my life, you know,_ Mark wrote at one point, and Edward replied, _Mine, too._ And that, Bella thinks, is where they'd landed on common ground. Initially they'd talked about her, but over time, they'd learned to talk to each other. Bella wonders if it was easier for Edward by mail where visuals are absent; he could forget the niggling detail that Mark was black. In writing, they were freed from society's labels, becoming words and ideas -- their true selves. Mark had always been a magnificent writer, eloquent, insightful, sometimes idealistic -- none too different from Edward, really. But he also told Edward things he hadn't told her -- hidden fears and desires.

_I'm ready for kids. I want little brown babies with soft curly hair and Bella's laugh, but carrying them would be hard on her body. She might have to have a C-section, or there could be other complications. I know a lot of pregnancies for paraplegic women go perfectly fine, but the risks rise. And she's not ready anyway. She's not a baby person. Rosa and Jada, or my mom -- or me -- if there's a baby in the room, we've got to get hands on it. Not Bella. She'll smile and watch from a distance. She doesn't *dislike* kids, but she's not a baby person. Not to mention there's the whole question of my epilepsy. Is it genetic? Would I pass it on? I may have learned to live with it, but I don't want my kids to have to. It's one thing to see your own disability in a positive light. It's another to wish it on somebody else. It's still a disability; there are things I just can't do._

Edward wrote back, _That's why I never wanted to turn Bella, whatever she said she wanted. Nobody should be stuck living like this._ He went on to talk about Mark's chances of passing on the epilepsy, but Bella skims that part, stuck back on other things.

Edward considered his vampirism a disability? She'd never thought of it that way. She knows he believes himself a monster, but back in Forks, the vampires had seemed impossibly _gifted_, like demigods, not handicapped. Yet now, older and disabled herself, she can understand. There _are_ things they can't do, limitations with which they've had to learn to live, just like her.

But more than that . . . Mark had been ready to start a family? He'd never told her. They'd talked about children in passing, but always in terms of "someday." She'd wanted to finish her degree -- get a job first. Having spent her childhood taking care of one parent or the other, she'd wanted a break, and the notion of having another person so totally dependent on her . . . it scared her. It still does.

Yet now . . . sometimes she's sad they never had a baby, even while she's also relieved. How could she take care of a child by herself and finish her degree? Or afford to raise one? Nonetheless, Mark's "little brown babies with soft curly hair" echoes through her mind because nothing remains of him except memories, no flesh-and-blood of his blood, and she must stop reading for a while because that thought makes her cry.

Fortunately, much of Mark and Edwards' exchange had been banter, especially as time wore on and they got to know one another well enough to tease. It's peculiar to see that side of Edward. He has a wicked and surprisingly ribald tongue, at least with another man. He hadn't shown that to her in Forks, too conscious of her age or her gender, and he never made off-color jokes to Mark that were personal, either. She isn't sure if it's because he'd consider it to be in bad taste, or because he doesn't want to think about her and Mark that way . . . or both. Probably both.

Others of their letters are extended intellectual discussions like the one she'd had with Edward last night -- but a few . . . they are about their love for her. She is surprised how freely Edward tells Mark what he'd felt -- what apparently he still feels.

_She's the bravest woman I've ever met. I should've terrified her; she should've run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. Instead, she stayed. I told her all the terrible things I'd done and she believed in me anyway. I hated myself. No, I *despised* myself. Utterly. But she made me want to be better. She made me try to be the man she saw me to be. There is no greater gift than that -- to make you believe in yourself. Faith. She taught me to have faith again -- this little slip of a girl who was almost ninety years younger than me. Everything I knew, everything I'd seen -- it was all locked in my head. It left me cold. I was stone, and not just literally. But she saw with the heart and made mine remember how to beat. Well, figuratively anyway._

That makes her cry too. She's never really understood what he saw in her back then. She'd been so young, so inexperienced; she'd felt herself to be so much his inferior. She'd _idolized_ him. It hadn't been healthy; she knows that now. But her veneration had been a gift. She'd beatified him, and in so doing, had made him see the possibility of good in himself, made him want to embrace it. Perhaps it hadn't been so terrible, then, to idolize him a little. Ten years later, she sees him more realistically, but hopes she can still convince him he's a good person -- and not because he's without flaws, but because he has them. His flaws make him human, and she recalls something Irene, Jacob's wife, told her once: "We are what our dreams and the Creator makes us." She hopes she can still help a vampire to dream, even if he can't sleep.

All morning and much of the afternoon, she reads. It takes almost a whole box of Kleenex, although sometimes she laughs as much as she cries. But it is near the end that she finds the letter that sends her over the edge. It is dated September 20th -- not long after her birthday and just a month before Mark's death.

_The seizures are getting more frequent. I haven't told Bella; there's nothing she can do except worry. The doctor isn't sure we can keep them regulated by medicine anymore; he's talking surgery. Would you come with me to my next appointment? You're the neurosurgeon now. I'm not sure what to make of the options he's giving me. Some sound dire._

_And another thing -- remember that promise you made? If anything does happen to me -- if I have the surgery and don't make it -- you promised you'd take care of her. I have a bad feeling about this. I think I've always known I was living on borrowed time. Sooner or later, my brain would just short-out. Take care of Bella, Edward. I'm counting on you. I love her more than I can say. I love her with my whole soul. And if I die and you don't take care of her, I swear to God, I'll haunt you for the rest of your very long life. Take care of my beautiful swan._

She is stunned. Stunned that he _knew_ something had been wrong and stunned that he hadn't told her. Furious as well, although it was just like him to figure out his options before talking to her. But mostly, it brings home to her -- all over again -- that he's _gone_. She'll never more see him, never talk to him, never hold or touch him, never make love to him, never hear him laugh or call her beautiful swan. The first day they'd met and she'd told him her name was Bella Swan, he'd burst into giggles. "Your parents named you _beautiful swan_?" She'd stuck out her tongue at him. She knew what "bella" meant in Italian, but it wasn't something she gave much thought to. Trust Mark to see the humor of it, then latch onto it as his special name for her.

These letters -- they've been like having him back for a while, but he's _not_ back. Her Mark is dead, his body rotting under a live oak in a Jacksonville graveyard, his spirit fled somewhere. She hopes it's to the heaven he believed in and tried to convince her of, but she doesn't know.

It breaks her, and abruptly, she can't breathe -- as if her ribcage has caved in to pierce her lungs. Sobs wrack her whole body, tearing at her like claws. She is bleeding inside, and she hates this god forsaken, helpless sorrow. She's tried so hard not to think about it, to distract herself, to do anything at all so she doesn't have to _feel_. But that only works for so long, and now it's all come back to bludgeon her.

She can't read anymore. She's not sure she'll ever be able to finish the letters even if only a few remain. She's learned what she needed to know and now ejects the CD, snatching it out of the holder although it's hard to see through her tears. Her hands shake violently.

She rolls away from her desk, the precious CD on her lap. She doesn't even think to close the CD drawer or turn off the laptop. Sitting in her chair in the middle of her living room floor, she clutches the plastic silver disk to her heart and cries. And cries. And cries. She cries so hard she starts to hiccup and it hurts her belly. In fact, sitting up hurts altogether so she rolls to the couch and locks her chair wheels, pushing herself onto the cushions.

There, she curls up as best she can with her useless legs, then lets the crying jags take her. Just when she thinks she's all out of tears, more come. She feels hot in the face and her throat is raw and dry. All her muscles ache but she can't stop. She feels as if somebody cut her open and she's bleeding out onto blue upholstery.

* * *

**Endnotes:** Again, my apologies that it's short. But! I've already started the next section, and as a tantalizer, here are the first lines ...

_"Go," Alice tells him. "She needs you."  
"What happened?" he asks into his cell phone. "She didn't hurt herself -- "  
"No. She read the letters, Edward. She needs you."  
His dead heart leaps into his throat ... _

**Reviews are love! Thanks to everybody who reviews, and I try to answer every one that's signed!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes:** Edward to the rescue! This part is longer than the previous, and is really the "second half" of part 20. It practically wrote itself. I'm not sure if the next chapter will be quite THIS fast. ;

* * *

"Go," Alice tells him. "She needs you."

"What happened?" he asks into his cell phone. "She didn't hurt herself -- "

"No. She's reading the letters, Edward. She'll need you."

His dead heart leaps into his throat. "The letters -- " Not _those_ letters, surely. Hadn't Alice said that she and Jasper had decided to come to Dawesonville precisely to keep Bella from trying to open that file? He'd thought it a non-issue.

But no. "Your letters to Mark, of course," Alice says now, confirming his fears. "Now _stop talking to me_ and go help Bella, Edward." She hangs up on him, but he's already halfway down the cabin stairs, headed for the door.

He drives for Dawesonville like a bat out of hell -- an ironic simile, considering. The sun is setting as he pulls into the parking lot of Bella's apartment complex. He hadn't planned to come today, feeling guilty for monopolizing her yesterday evening no matter how much fun he'd had listening to her. She really does have to read, not debate feminist theory with him. But if Bella needs him, there is no question but that he'll be here as fast as four wheels can manage.

Other people are about, so he must walk at a human pace to her door, then bangs on it, shouting, "Bella! It's Edward!" There is no immediate answer, and he's about to call Alice to see if she's at home or at the college when he hears a faint noise on the other side of the door. Human ears wouldn't pick it up, but he hears the sniffle easily. There are heartbeats too, but human hearts beat all around and he's not sure which is hers. The sniffle, however -- "Bella?" He briefly considers breaking down the door.

Her voice stops him; it is so raw it cracks. "Come in. It's not locked." He wastes no time on irritation that her door is unlocked, just bursts in, taking stock of her state quickly.

She's lying on the couch, her back to the door, her abandoned chair facing the seat. Her breath is heavy and her short hair is a mess. He is beside her in an instant, kneeling to lift her up and turn her a little, checking her for injuries -- she is Bella, after all -- but finds none. Her face is splotched, her eyes so swollen they look sunken and her lips are cracked. He thinks she's just a little dehydrated, which, if she's been crying as hard as it looks like she has, she very well could be. "Let me get you some water," he says softly, not even waiting to hear her acknowledge him.

He's back with a water bottle she had in the fridge and a wet washcloth in just the time it took her to turn over. He wipes her face a little and can feel the dried salt against his fingers. Then he lifts her up -- she looks almost too weak too move -- and holds the bottle while she drinks.

"Thanks," she whispers, voice stronger.

"Any time," he tells her.

His heart is breaking for her, but he's also relieved. She's not screaming at him to go away. Then again, she's in such a bad state, she probably couldn't raise her voice. Without asking permission (it's easier to get forgiveness), he moves so that he's sitting on the couch where her head had been and pulls her a little into his lap, gently, letting her head rest on his shoulder. She doesn't fight him, just breathes for a while, hands curled against her chest. She holds a silver CD. He's afraid to ask what's on it. They don't speak for a long time. He just rocks her, humming under his breath sometimes. "I loved him," she says after a while.

"I know," he says. "He loved you too."

She just sobs a little. Her body is shaking in his grip and he strokes her hair. "I don't love you. I'm sorry, Edward. I loved him."

Her words are the stake through his heart. Too bad they can't kill him. "Of course you did," he manages to get out. "He was your husband."

He feels her fist tighten around the fabric of his sweater. "I like you, though," she says softly. "I like you a lot. You've been a good friend."

He kisses the crown of her head. If his heart could beat, it would be thudding. "Thank you," he whispers. He's not too proud to take what he can get, and if that makes him pathetic, he'll be pathetic.

After a while, he realizes she's asleep. She must have cried herself into exhaustion, and he considers carrying her into her bed, but doesn't. This -- just holding her again -- is something he's spent years longing for. He's not ready to let her go, and he adjusts her in his arms to make it a little more comfortable for her. He is stone, not a comfy pillow. But when he tries to pry the CD from her grip, she just clutches it more tightly and mutters in her sleep. Sighing, he lets it go and leans his head back against the couch top, closing his eyes. He breathes the flower sweetness of her, listens to her heart patter. It reminds him of ten years ago, watching her in her bed. But she'd been so young and innocent then, and physically whole. That makes him wonder when she emptied her bladder last? Not a romantic thought, but he's a doctor and knows she has to keep her schedule or she could risk stretching or even rupturing it. He lets her sleep another half hour, then wakes her gently. "Bella?"

It takes a little effort. She's groggy. "What?"

"When's the last time you voided?"

"When's the . . . what? Oh." She sits up a little. "A while." He can smell her breath; it's fetid from sleep and weeping.

"I'll put you in your chair."

"Thank you."

He lifts her easily and settles her in, then hands her the water bottle. "Drink a little more first. I'm sure your throat's raw, and you need to rehydrate."

"Yes, Dr. Masen." She does as he instructs without quarrel, however, handing him back the bottle after a long swallow. He watches as she wheels herself slowly down the hallway to the bathroom. Standing outside the closed door, he listens to her move around inside to be sure she doesn't fall. She is still weak and half-asleep, but she's been doing this for years. He relaxes a little when he hears the urine hiss against toilet water. Bella isn't as clumsy as she used to be, but he suspects a lot of her former clumsiness stemmed from just not quite noticing her surroundings. She'd been off in her own little world and didn't always pay attention to what her body was doing. There is nothing wrong with her cerebellum to ruin her balance, near as he can tell, and after living in the chair for ten years, it's forced her to slow down and be more aware. If she still isn't the world's most coordinated person, she doesn't seem as accident-prone -- a fact Emmett bemoaned over the holidays. Personally, Edward is relieved.

She comes out after about five minutes, and it's clear she's combed her hair and brushed her teeth too. She looks up at him standing there and he retreats to let her roll into the living room. Going to the coffee table with the water bottle, she opens it and drinks a good third of what's left. She still holds that CD. He waits for the explosion.

It doesn't come. "I found the letters. Between you and Mark."

His eyes drop from her face to the silver disk. "I know. Alice warned me."

She nods. "I wasn't sure. You seemed to know something. But then, you just showed up yesterday to cook me dinner." She pauses, then continues, "I'm glad you knew each other. I'm glad he had you for a friend. But I wish you'd both just told me."

"I promised him -- "

"I know what you promised him. But I'm annoyed at you. And at him, too, but he's . . . he's not here . . . " She trails off, her face twisting and he moves towards her but she holds up a hand. After a moment, she gets herself back under control. "He's not here," she finishes finally. "Would the two of you _ever_ have told me?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Maybe. Probably, actually. It might've been hard to hide as I was supposed to assist with his surgery. Well, he wanted me to. I wasn't sure it was a good idea -- considering. Nothing like going crazy and draining all the surgical staff, you know, in the middle of an operation."

Her eyes widen and her face turns stark. "So he _was_ going to have surgery?"

"He hadn't decided yet, but I think it probably would've been the only way to control the seizures."

"Did you go to his appointment with him?"

"Yes."

"I didn't read all the way to the end," she says. "Just to . . . just to that letter. When he asked you to go with him to his appointment. September 20th. When was the appointment?"

"The next week. "

"Why didn't he tell me? Shouldn't _I_ have gone? I'm his wife! Was his wife."

"He was scared, Bella -- more than I think he wanted to admit to himself. Mark didn't like being scared."

"I know that! But still -- "

"Don't be angry with him. I know he was planning to tell you after his tests came back. He had to schedule an MRI."

"Why didn't I hear about it later? Get the results? Something?"

"The imaging appointment was set for the week -- ah, after. I called to cancel."

"When were you going to tell me all this, Edward? Didn't I have a right to know?" And now the anger he feared is seeping through.

He shrugs a bit helplessly. "Yes, I think you did. But Mark wasn't ready to tell you, and after -- what was the point?"

"So I'd _know_? I thought it was just a freak accident that killed him!"

"It was. It wasn't the actual seizure, Bella. I looked at his autopsy report. It was the fall. He hit his temple; it really was an accident. He was scared about the surgery, but I think he'd have come through with flying colors. He was in good health, epilepsy aside."

"But he might not have _had_ that seizure if things weren't getting worse!"

"He might not. But he might. Mark's seizures were never entirely regulated by the medicine. You know that."

She sobs once, hard, and her hand goes up to her mouth. "I wasn't ready. I wasn't . . . I wasn't prepared. At all. If . . . if I'd known about the seizures getting worse, I might have been. Well, not prepared for him to die, but I might not have been as surprised."

"I told him to tell you," Edward says quietly. "He kept telling me he was going to. He just didn't want to worry you until he had to. He was human, Bella. He made mistakes. Don't be angry."

"Don't be angry? Edward!" He can hear her annoyance escalating. "You and my husband carried on a -- what? -- six-year-or-more friendship, and neither of you ever _told_ me? I feel . . . I feel so many things. You kept so much from me. You never told me you took care of Victoria. You never told me you were still hanging around in the rafters of my life years after you left. You never told me you were friends with Mark. And Mark knew all that -- Jacob knew it too! -- and none of you told me? What the _hell_ do you think I am? Six years old?"

Edward winces because here it comes again -- the anger Alice had warned him wasn't entirely settled. "It got . . . complicated."

"That's not an excuse!"

"No," he agrees. "It's . . . a reason, I guess. Why we didn't tell you. At first, Mark was afraid -- like I told you before. He didn't want to admit it -- least of all to me -- but he was afraid he might lose you if I came back into your life." She opens her mouth to react to that, thunder on her face, but he barrels on, "Later, not so much. Not really at all, actually. He knew you loved him Bella. He did. But by then, well, we'd been in contact a while and it was complicated. How do you go to your wife and say, 'Oh, by the way, I'm friends with your vampire ex-boyfriend who left you because he was a jerk and made you so sad you could barely function for months then jumped off a cliff. Yeah, we're buddies now, who'd have thought?'"

To Edward's surprise, Bella actually laughs a little at that. "All right," she says. "Yes, it was odd. But you still should have told me."

"Yes, probably," he says, looking down at the toes of his shoes.

"Not 'probably' -- you should. When we first spoke after Alice and Jasper came back, you told me there wasn't anything else you hadn't confessed. I trusted you. How can I trust you now?"

"There _wasn't_," Edward insists, feeling alarmed. Rebuilding her trust is important to him. "Or nothing big."

"This is big, Edward! You were friends with my husband! The two of you wrote back and forth as much as once or twice a week!"

"I did tell you I knew him, Bella. I didn't hide that."

"But you didn't tell me the two of you were good friends!"

He frowns. "We weren't, really. Friends, but not good friends. I don't think he'd have called us good friends, and I told you I asked him about you sometimes. I didn't lie."

"You didn't tell me the whole truth, either! And now, you're _prevaricating_, Edward. Stop it. You _know_ you still didn't tell me everything."

"You weren't ready to hear everything that night. And did it occur to _you_" -- his guilt turns to a little anger -- "that you invaded our privacy? You read _our_ email without our permission. Sometimes people need to talk to somebody else, Bella. I don't think Mark would have wanted you to read some of that stuff. Maybe I had it coming since I can read other people's thoughts without their permission, but Mark didn't. One of the things he taught _me_ was to see how intrusive my mind-reading really is. It's not just annoying to me, it's . . . wrong -- and it's because of him that I've begun working on blocking things out more than I had before."

And for the first time, Bella stops looking irritated and appears mortified. "I didn't -- I mean, I needed to know -- "

"No, you didn't. Some of it you didn't need to know." Edward is surprised by just how angry _he_ is feeling now, in turn. At first, he'd just been frightened she'd be furious and cut him out of her life again, but his own sense of betrayal takes him a little by surprise. This isn't just a ploy to turn the argument. He's genuinely hurt. "Some of that is a little embarrassing."

"It didn't make me think less of you!" she tells him. "Either of you! I needed to know!"

He just shrugs, and suddenly understands her own mixed feelings about the whole thing a lot better. "Like I said," he mutters finally. "Complicated."

"Yeah." She pauses, then blurts, "I'm sorry for reading your mail."

"And I'm sorry we didn't tell you. But as you saw, we weren't . . . we weren't keeping anything . . . bad . . . from you. Most of the time, we weren't even talking about you -- or patronizing you. You worry about that too much. Caring about somebody doesn't always equate to patronizing them."

"I know," she says softly. "I saw in the letters." She sighs and runs a hand over her face. Her expression is blank and grief blasted. "I guess it was hard on you too, then -- his death. You lost a friend."

"Yes."

"I didn't realize that before. I'm sorry. I should have asked you to the funeral."

"It's okay. I've visited his grave."

"You did?" She looks surprised.

"Yeah. A few weeks after the burial, I drove down there. It was . . . something I needed to do."

She nods, as if understanding that. "Bella," he says now, "Please understand that yes, we were friends, but Mark had other friends too -- you, not least. I wasn't the first person he called to tell things to. That was you. Then came half a dozen other people. I was rather lower on that list."

"He told you about the seizures," she snaps.

"Because I'm a neurologist, for Christ's sake! I mean, if you were told you had cancer and you happened to know an oncologist, wouldn't you take him or her with you to the appointment? That's all it was; I could interpret the medical-speak for him."

"You said he wanted you in the surgery."

"He did, if he opted for that. He asked his doctor if I could assist. To be honest, the man wasn't keen on the idea -- and neither was I, for obvious reasons. Head wounds _bleed_, Bella, even in a controlled situation like surgery. Not that it's necessarily the volume of blood. A pin-prick could be enough to set me over the edge."

"You sucked the venom out of my wrist -- _my_ blood -- and didn't kill me."

"Of course not. I loved you."

She studies him a moment, then asks, "Were you afraid that -- if it was him -- you might hate him as much as you liked him, and not be able to stop yourself?"

The question brings him up short; he frowns. "I . . . don't know. I'd like to think not. Anyway" -- he waves a hand -- "it's moot. My point is just that he didn't turn to me because he felt that close to me, but because of what I knew."

"He asked you to look out for me if something did happen to him," she says.

"Yes. He knew I loved you. He knew I'd do anything for you. He was worried, so he took advantage of that." A part of him resents it; a part of him is grateful. He doesn't tell Bella this.

Maybe she knows because she is studying him oddly. In any case, she also seems to have calmed down, looking neither furious nor on the edge of hysteria. The tension between them has drained away for the moment and he feels emotionally wrung. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"All right?"

"I mean -- God, that sounded stupid. I mean, do you need anything? More water? Food? Sleep, maybe? You were exhausted when I got here."

"I am tired," she says, running a hand through her hair. It's flat and greasy. "But I need to read. Today has just been shot to hell -- "

"No, you don't need to read," he interrupts. "Tomorrow, you can read. Tonight -- " He shakes his head. "Do something to relax, all right? I'll take you out to eat. Or we can see a movie. Or . . . I don't know. Something."

"I have all those books to get through!" She points to her desk with stacks of books.

"They aren't going anywhere. For tonight, just forget about it." He isn't certain why he's being so insistent, but he feels strung out himself and can only imagine how much more she must feel it. "Do you really think you can concentrate right now?"

That seems to get through to her. "No," she says, shoulders slumping. "But I can't keep putting this off. I've got to get to work."

"And you will -- in the morning." He approaches her and kneels down in front of her chair, taking her hands in his. They feel cold, and he wonders how chilly his must feel in winter. The CD is on her lap. "Let's go somewhere fun, all right?"

"Somewhere fun in Dawesonville? Are you kidding? Besides, I'm _tired_. I'm not sure I feel up to going out. I look like something the cat dragged in."

"You look fine to me. And if you're bored with Dawesonville, we can drive to Helen. Or to Atlanta, if you'd rather." He checks his watch. "It's only 7:30. The night is young."

She actually manages to crack a smile. "For a vampire." He smiles back, oddly pleased with the way they can joke about it. Reaching out, she cups his cheek. "I just don't feel like it, Edward. I don't have the energy. How about pizza and a movie here? Well, pizza for me."

"Whatever you want." He tries to resist nuzzling her wrist to smell her blood. It still affects him.

"You're sniffing me, Edward." But she sounds amused as she pulls her hand away. "Anyway, it matters what you want, too. I'm just too tired to make a long drive or dress up for dinner, but we could go to a bookstore if you'd rather. There's a Borders in town with a coffee shop."

He can't help laughing that a bookstore is Bella's idea of a relaxing evening. "We could do that. Or we could watch a movie and you can have pizza. It really doesn't matter to me. I just want you to take the night off."

"A movie then," she says. "Sometimes all the trouble of getting ready to go out just isn't worth it. I have a Netflix movie here I've not got around to watching yet."

"All right."

He fetches takeout for her -- pepperoni, extra cheese -- and they watch some medieval period piece. It's full of inaccuracies and a bit boring; she falls asleep near the end, but not on his shoulder. If she'd let him cradle her when he'd first arrived, she'd been too broken to resist. Now she keeps a proper distance on the sofa. They are friends, and only that. She told him she didn't love him -- but she likes him. That's good enough.

Rising, he turns off the movie and cleans up congealed, greasy pizza, then stretches her out so her back isn't strained, covering her with several throws and letting her sleep while he reads her books. She went to the bathroom before the movie started so he thinks it safe to let her sleep undisturbed. When she jerks and cries out once, he's right there to soothe her back into slumber, and sometime after midnight, when he can tell she's deeply out, he lifts and carries her into her room to tuck her in. Then he goes back out to read until well after the sun is up and he can hear her stirring. Putting down the book, he gets up to make coffee and start breakfast for her.

She emerges a little later, goes to the bathroom, then rolls out into the main living area and peers at him in the kitchen. Her hair is wild. "You stayed here all night? Did you watch me sleep like you used to?"

"No," he says, cracking eggs into the skillet. "Do you like them scrambled or sunny-side up?"

"I don't care. What did you do then?"

"Read. In the living room," he adds, then gestures over his shoulder. "I made you coffee."

She glances at it, glances at him, at the skillet with the eggs, shrugs and gets coffee. He feeds her, then she takes a bath. When she emerges, she looks much better than at any point the night before, and settles in on the couch to begin reading. She lets him stay. He listens to music, or plays on her computer. At noon, he feeds her lunch -- reheated pizza -- then returns to what he was doing as she returns to her books. For dinner, he makes pasta. It's hard to ruin pasta, he figures. It's after nine in the evening before she finally looks up from her book to ask, "Are you planning to stay here again tonight?"

"I will if you'd like."

She laughs. "Edward, go home. I'm starting to think you're like the family cat. You have to be put out in the evening."

He raises an eyebrow, but resists being offended. After all, she let him stay all day, and he's proven he can be here without distracting her. At the door, he says, "I'll bring dinner tomorrow, and my residency applications. You can read while I work on those."

For a moment, she looks as if she would like to protest, but doesn't, just shakes her head. "See you tomorrow, Edward."

"Tomorrow, Bella."

And the next evening, he is there just as he promised with Chinese takeout, his computer and his papers. It sets a pattern. Over the next weeks, she comes not just to allow, but even to assume and expect his presence. He likes that.

* * *

**Reviews? Love it? Hate it? Let me know please! I answer all signed reviews. And I love all of you for being so kind in reviewing previous chapters!  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes:** Rosalie and Emmett prepare to leave Nashville. (This is short, but critical, I think.)

* * *

Happy Edward amuses Rosalie because Happy Edward is as rare as unicorns or leprechauns. She's seen Happy Edward for an extended period only once before -- the last time he'd had Bella in his life. Of course, he'd acted like a complete ass back then, self-involved, dumbstruck, and giddy or melancholic by turns. Rose hadn't been thrilled about it at all.

Now -- and honestly -- she finds it darling . . . probably because if the dumbstruck and giddy aspects are the same, he's a good deal less self-involved. In fact, she almost likes Edward these days. She always loved him -- he is family -- but she's rarely liked him. That's changed.

Nevertheless, she finds herself protective of Bella because Bella isn't ready. Her heart is broken, and like any wound, this one will take time to heal. It can't be rushed. Rosalie has heard Edward _say_ he doesn't want to rush, but she knows deep down inside, he does. He's been waiting. And waiting. And he loves her. It's natural for him to want Bella to love him back _right now_. Rosalie thinks she might still a little, but it's buried deep beneath pain and grief. She'd loved Mark more. Rosalie, who has Emmett, understands. If she ever lost him, she'd simply die, like an amputee who bleeds out before the stump can be cauterized. After so long, he is _grafted_ into her -- her friend, her lover, her hero . . . her healer. She is glad that Bella didn't have Mark for so long or it might be much harder for her.

That is why Rose doesn't want Edward to push Bella, or confuse her. It'll happen when it happens, and as Alice is convinced it'll happen, Rosalie has faith. Nobody bets against Alice -- even Rose.

Now, Rosalie flips through the preliminary budget for the shelter's opening that Alice drew up over the holidays, then the initial monthly operating costs -- electricity, gas, water, trash, phone, food, not to mention things like clothes, paper goods, toys for kids and toiletries. If all goes well, those operating costs will increase over time, but Bella has cautioned not to expect too much too fast. It's a rural, county shelter, and will be regarded with suspicion. Emmett seems to agree with that so Rose has braced herself for slow growth.

It is a late afternoon in late January, winter-white sun falling in through slatted, designer shades that adorn Rosalie's Nashville office. The light fractures through the water of a tropical fish tank like a prism. Rosalie finds the tank smelly even when the water has just been cleaned, but she's also learned her clients like to watch the fish. It's calming, the synchronized dash of neons or the water-flutter of angelfish and brilliance of guppy tails.

Rosalie will have to think about a fishtank for the shelter.

She should be prepping material for a deposition tomorrow, but is distracted. She knows this current disinterest in her real work (that she gets paid for) is probably a sign that it's past time to move on. But there are still outstanding cases for which she hasn't found adequate representation. Representation, yes, _adequate_, no.

Sighing, she pushes Alice's budget aside and pulls the deposition papers toward her, running a hand into her hair. Here, where there is nobody to see, she doesn't give two figs about whether it's neat or not.

She doesn't notice the passage of time until her door opens quietly. Looking up, she smiles at Emmett. He smiles back. "You coming home tonight? My belly's starting to think my throat's cut."

Emmett gets hungry faster than she does, and she'd completely forgotten she'd promised to go hunting with him tonight. Sighing, giving him her best 'sorry' smile. "Give me a minute? I'm almost finished. Well, I'm almost to a stopping spot."

"Sure thing, darlin'." He winks and disappears again. She returns to her papers under the yellow light from her green banker's lamp. Writing at vampire speed, she finishes as quickly as she can and shoves it all back in the fanfolder, then grabs her suit jacket, hurrying out to where he's seated in the waiting room, head back, eyes closed, just _being_. She's always loved that about him, how he can relax and BE.

She drops a kiss on his upturned lips and feels them curl under hers. "Ready?" he asks. His dimples are adorable.

"Ready," she says.

They go home and change into hunting clothes -- dark cloth that's easy to clean if blood gets on it. Also things that are easy to get _off_ without ripping, because death and sex are more closely related than most people want to admit. It wouldn't be the first time a hunting trip with Emmett ended with more than one sort of appetite being satisfied.

But that evening, they just eat. Then they race over hill and dale in the dark, laughing like children. Only with Emmett is Rosalie ever this free. Only Emmett can make her laugh this hard. Only Emmett can throw her into a wet, cold, muddy pond and get away with it -- leave her in screaming stitches because he's tickling her and he knows exactly where she's ticklish. Rochester debutantes don't roll in the mud like redneck girls, but she is no stereotype when she's with him. She's just his Rose.

They find a bigger lake to go skinny-dipping in the moonlight and clean up . . . which does turn to playful love-making. After, they wash their clothes so they can get back into his jeep without dripping mud. They return to their apartment after three. All their belongings are half-packed and they weave through boxes, leaving wet footprints on the Persian carpet even after doffing their shoes at the door. Their filthy clothes are left in the bin for the maid; no telling what she'll think they were up to. At least there's no blood.

Upstairs, they stumble into the shower to wash each other with soap. There is a little erotic play under pounding water, but they're sated enough that it's more in fun than in earnest. Finished finally, they go to bed. It is not to make love again, or even to fuck, and certainly not to sleep. But sometimes they like to pretend. They breathe in unison, spooned up with her back to his front. He traces idle figures on her skin and she lets her mind run over what remains to be done before they can leave Tennessee.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks after a while. "The move?"

"Yes," she says.

It is not the first time he's asked, nor the first time she's answered.

"You're _sure_?"

"Yes, Emmett." She tries not to sound tired. He is only thinking of her, like he always does. "We won't be living with them. Neither will Alice and Jasper. I think . . . I think it'll help."

He just nods. She can feel it move the pillow even if she can't see him behind her. After a moment, he whispers, "You're the bravest woman I've ever known, Rosie. I love you."

It's not the first time he's said that, either. Not by a long shot, but she still twists in his arms to plant a kiss on the end of his cute little nose. "I know," she says. "And I adore you."

"Have you decided what house you want?"

She was in the Helen area earlier that week to look over more homes. "I think the white clapboard on the east side of Gainesville will work out best. Gainesville is the biggest town in the area -- I can set up a practice -- and it'd be the easiest house to modify for Bella."

"Why do you think we'll need to?" his eyebrows go up.

"Oh, Emmett -- think. Her lease is up at the end of May and there's no reason for her to stay in Dawesonville. Edward can take her back there if she needs the library, or for meetings, but there are better libraries in Atlanta. And do you _honestly_ believe she's ready to move into Esme's cabin? Even if it weren't hard for her to get around in those cramped hallways with only stairs to the second mezzanine . . . being that close to Edward? She's not ready for that. And however much Jasper has improved, he won't want her to move in with him and Alice. It wouldn't be safe. But you and I -- I'm not worried about our control, and _some_body has to take care of her."

Emmett grins. "You're a softie, you know it? Brass tacks on the outside, but pure marshmallow inside."

"I am not!" She'd be offended except, of course, it's Emmett.

He chuckles and rolls onto his back. "Yes, you are. And you do realize, if she moves in with us, Edward is going to become a _fixture_ in the house?"

She sighs. "I know. I'll just . . . spend extra time at the office. Or in court."

He smirks. "Someday, the two of you are going to realize you actually like each other."

"I already realize that. I like Edward fine. In small doses."

* * *

**  
Notes:** Gainesville, (North) Georgia is NOT Gainesville, (North) Florida. Just, you know, had to point that out, given Bulldog-Gator rivalries. Also, while I realize some readers may think Rose a little "OOC" here, Bella and Edward aren't the only ones who've changed. Furthermore, we only ever see Rose through Bella's eyes in the books, or through Edward's in _Midnight Sun_. I don't trust either of them as unbiased sources.

Also, this is a really busy season for me. I'm trying to get at least one update a week, but please forgive if it's not more frequent than that, or if the updates are short. **As always, reviews are wonderful!**


	23. Chapter 23

One yellow rosebud, partially opened, graces a narrow, clear-glass vase in the middle of her little dining room table.

Bella blinks at it, less because she isn't sure where it came from (Edward, obviously) than because she isn't sure _why_ it's there. "Edward?" she asks, half turning her chair towards the kitchen where he moves between the sink and stove, making her stir-fry in a big skillet. His culinary talents have improved, or perhaps he's just grown more adventurous in the kitchen. He also comes and goes these days; she gave him a key even if he doesn't need one to get in. It's symbolic. He's never broken in, not once, and so she is willing to grant him easy access.

Today she has just returned from a quick meeting with her advisor, then a trip to the library. "What's the occasion?" she asks, nodding to the rose.

Raising his head, he stares at her a moment. "What's the date, Bella?"

"I don't know. The thirteenth?" But it's not a Friday so it can't be some weird vampiric tradition.

He laughs -- a short burst of sound like a snort. "It's the _fourteenth_," he tells her. "It's February fourteenth."

Valentine's Day. "Oh," she says, softly. A sword of grief pierces her, the sharp kind that one can't feel until it slices the belly open. She clutches hers. Edward watches but makes no move from where he's standing, as if aware she wouldn't welcome it. After a moment, he turns his back to attack the contents in the skillet. "I left some chocolate on your desk. Brain food."

She makes a sound more like a sob than a laugh, but spins her chair and rolls out into the little living area where her desk sits. Sure enough, a matte gold box waits on top. It's not red, and it's not in the shape of a heart. It's plain and square, graced only by the signature gold bow. Godiva chocolates, probably a pound of them, given the size. She runs her hands over the lid, then pulls off the ribbon and lifts it to see inside. "Don't eat too many," Edward calls from the kitchen; he must have heard her open it, damn vampire ears. "You'll spoil your dinner."

It's such a mundane, domestic comment, it makes her smile -- which beats weeping. She's tired of weeping, she does it so frequently. Selecting a chocolate -- square caramel -- she eats it slowly as she thinks about the gifts. A yellow rose for friendship and simple chocolates devoid of sappy holiday boxing . . . he's obviously taken care not to assume anything, yet still remember the holiday. It's the act of a _friend_ -- as the rose declares. And in the past two months, he's become one -- more of a friend, truly, than he ever was in Forks. Ten years ago, their mutual, youthful passion had accelerated everything, then the danger presented by James had exacerbated it, lacing it with fear and adrenaline. How could she not love the boy who'd saved her life not once, but several times?

No danger presents now, unless one counts the threat of possible failure with her comps. The weeks have passed in a dull march of book after book and Edward-cooked meals. Sleep, wake, shower, read, eat, read, eat again, read, sleep. This is not exciting. Yet Edward sticks like a burr, loyal and stubborn, occupying his days by brushing up on the most recent articles in neurology should one of his applications be accepted -- and how could one not be? Esme has confided Edward's grades in school; theoretically, hospitals should be falling all over themselves to hire him. He seems less certain, and Bella -- who knows from experience that other factors go into acceptance or rejection -- isn't sure whether to have faith like Esme, or follow Edward's skepticism.

Finished with her chocolate, she puts the box back, then wheels into the dining room as Edward emerges from the kitchen with her dinner on a plate, setting it in front of her. She looks at the dinner, then at the rose. "Thank you," she says softly. She means for more than just dinner. He may not be able to read her mind, but she thinks he understands the full scope of her gratitude anyway. He smiles.

A little over a week later, Bella arrives in the anthropology office for the first of her exams. She is jittery from too much coffee because she couldn't sleep at all the night before. Edward drove her here, and plans to wait in the little lounge area. He has a small stack of new _NEJM_s to keep him occupied. Lorraine, who is here for the first exam to explain the process, eyes him curiously. "Is he one of your students -- ?"

"What? No," Bella says, glancing over her shoulder. Plopping the journals down on the seat, Edward turns to offer his hand to Lorraine. Bella watches her advisor flinch subtly and is reminded that her own reaction to vampires was never normal. Lorraine is afraid, although it's also clear from the tight expression in her eyes that she can't fathom her own suspicions. He must look like 'just a boy' to her.

"Lorraine, this is Dr. Ed Masen," Bella says. She calls him 'Ed' to anybody who might talk to her parents. 'Edward' is too distinctive. "Ed, this is Professor Michaels, my advisor. You met each other at the hospital the night Mark -- " She stops abruptly.

"Oh," Lorraine says softly, then, "You're a doctor?" Bella can see her trying to work out how Edward is old enough to have acquired a Ph.D already. Even Bella isn't old enough to have a Ph.D., quite.

"I have a medical degree from Emory," Edward explains. He doesn't add that he has a Ph.D. too, just lets Lorraine assume he's a doctor of the more traditional type, which requires less school time.

"Ah -- " Lorraine looks down at Bella, who is both amused but also scrambling. This unscripted moment has become a test of what they can make people believe. Edward is dressed in khakis and a button-down today -- casual enough, but not in an undergrad or grad student fashion. "How do you know Bella?"

Edward shoots her a glance, then takes a breath and admits, "We went to high school together."

"You went . . . how _old_ are you?"

He grins. "A year younger than Bella. I just look boyish, I know."

Bella holds her breath but, to her astonishment, Lorraine doesn't question his assertion. "I want your genes!" she says instead, laughing. "You won't mind looking boyish in another twenty years."

Edward's face remains perfectly bland. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth (probably literally), and Bella is sure he's heard such sentiments before. "Thank you," is all he says now, then Lorraine is leading Bella away, but Bella knows the older woman will fish once they're alone.

"So you went to school with him?" Lorraine begins as she leads Bella down to her office where Bella will sit the exam.

"Yes."

"He knew Mark?"

"Yes. Ironically, it was Mark who reconnected us. They met when Mark was doing volunteer chaplain work at Grady Memorial in Atlanta and Ed was doing his internship there." The lie comes easily. "After a few weeks, they put two and two together and Mark invited Ed to dinner to surprise me. It's ironic to run into somebody you knew years ago when you're living on the other side of the country."

"So Mark and Ed knew each other?" Lorraine is still curious, but relaxing a little.

"They were good friends actually," Bella says. And that, at least, isn't a lie -- not by the end.

"Oh. I just hadn't ever seen him before."

"He's kept pretty busy in Atlanta. But his sister lives in Helen, so he comes over now and then. He and Ann make sure I eat." She calls Esme 'Anne' in public, just as she calls Edward 'Ed.'

With the stranger placed now in the context of a long-standing friendship with Mark, Lorraine seems less concerned. She'd been fond of Mark, and must have worried that Bella was moving on too soon after his death. For all her feminist leanings, Lorraine still carries a good dollop of old-fashioned, Southern-bred propriety and decent widows don't start dating only a few months after their husbands pass. Bella doesn't feel like explaining that even were Edward to want it, _she_ isn't ready to move on regardless of whether it's 'decent.' None of that is Lorraine's business, and it's time for Bella to concentrate on her comprehensives, not on how to explain Edward to strangers. Lorraine moves around her office, getting things ready, then wishes Bella luck and Bella is left in peace to write.

The tests are spread across a week. She wakes, is driven in to take an exam, types for hours, goes home, eats and sleeps, then wakes to do it all again. By the time she's done, she's wrung in a way she's never been before -- mentally exhausted and emotionally strung out. Somewhat to her surprise, however, it isn't Edward waiting for her after her last exam. It's Rosalie.

Both Bella's eyebrows lift. "I thought you were still in Nashville?"

"Oh, no," Rose says. "We moved two weeks ago."

"You did?"

One corner of Rose's mouth quirks up. "You were a little preoccupied."

Running a hand over her face and mussing her hair, Bella nods. "I guess I have been. So where's Edward?"

"I chased him off. Tonight, you belong to us."

"Huh?" is the best a brain-dead Bella can manage at that enigmatic assertion.

"Come on." Standing, Rose pulls down the hem of her clingy, hot-pink sweater. "Let's go home." And she heads out without even looking to see if Bella is following. At the suite exit, she holds the door -- because she reached it first -- then leads Bella from the building, ignoring the furtive, and not-so-furtive, glances from college boys. Bella is both amused and bemused by Rose's apparent ease at being an object of obvious sexual desire without losing any of her own strength in the process. Yet it is that very confidence, Bella thinks, that adds to Rose's allure. She doesn't need the boys, so the boys fall all over her. Of course, her looks still contribute, or more precisely, her body, and it is hard not to be jealous of Rosalie sometimes, even if Bella would like to think she's outgrown such high school silliness.

As they approach the building's parking lot, Rose turns to shoot Bella a genuinely _happy_ smile and says, "I am so proud of you!" then squeezes her shoulder. Bella forgets her jealousy. This is not the perpetually bitchy and deeply dissatisfied Rosalie Hale that Bella knew in high school. This Rose has become her friend too, like Edward. She leads Bella to where she is parked (illegally) in a handicapped spot. "I don't have one of those rearview-mirror hangie-things but since I was coming to get you, I figured this was legal."

Bella resists laughing. "Be glad campus security missed you this time. They wouldn't care who you were picking up if you didn't have the right sticker."

"I should have stolen Edward's," Rose says as she opens the door on her sleek, red sports car so she can pop the trunk.

Bella wishes she knew more about cars as this one looks very nice -- and very expensive, predictably. Then she spots a plug where the gas cap should be. "This car is ielectric/i?" she blurts out as Rose saunters around to the open trunk.

Rose's eyebrow lifts. "It's a Tesla, Bella; Tesla invented the electric sports car. Zero to sixty in 3.9 seconds, uses no oil, no gas, and I get about 220 miles per charge." She pats the car's rear in the way a mother might pat her gifted child. "Isn't she lovely?"

"Yes, she is," Bella says with a touch of wonder, then glances up at Rose. "You missed your calling; you should be an engineer."

"Been there, done that," Rose says, coming around to where Bella waits by the passenger side. "Back in 1967. I earned a Masters in mechanical engineering from the University of Chicago. It was a little shocking at the time."

Rose had apparently had the soul of a feminist before actually taking that introduction to women's studies course by chance. "Wasn't Edward born in Chicago?" Bella asks now.

"Yes, he was in one of his 'I want to go home' phases." She pauses and thinks about that, her chin tilted and the winter wind whipping her hair into a curly mess. "I suppose we all do that sometimes. We've been back to upstate New York, we've lived in Columbus, Emmett and I were just in Tennessee. Alice and Jasper don't really share the tendency, though -- nor Carlisle."

"Does he miss England, do you think?"

Rose shakes her head as she comes over to 'help' (covertly half-lift) Bella into the passenger seat, then breaks down her chair for the trunk. "He says it's not the same England he grew up in, so no."

Bella waits while Rose stores her chair, then slides into the driver's seat. "I doubt anywhere in the world is like the time Carlisle grew up in," Bella says.

Rose sticks her key in the ignition. "That's true for all of us."

They go roaring out of the parking lot, but when Rose bypasses the turn that would lead to Bella's apartment complex, Bella looks over at her. Rose is wearing big, movie-star sunglasses even though it's not sunny. "I thought you said we were going home?"

"_My_ home, sorry; I wasn't clear. I'll bring you back on Sunday, but you don't really need anything from your apartment tonight. Do you?"

Perhaps she should be annoyed, but she laughs instead. "I guess I don't."

"Good." Rose hits the gas and zips around an ancient, sputtering Toyota plastered with too many bumperstickers. They race for the state highway that leads to Helen.

* * *

**Notes:** Rosalie would, of course, have the most innovative new sport's car on the road, so it seemed logical to me that she'd have a Tesla. They really are beautiful cars.


	24. Chapter 24

Rose and Emmett's house is -- predictably -- huge . . . more show house than home. In some ways, Rose hasn't changed at all, and Emmett is waiting on the porch, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear. Just seeing him makes Bella smile, but what extends off the porch to his left makes her gape. "How did you find a house with a wheelchair ramp?" she asks as Rose hits the auto-garage opener.

"Oh, we didn't. Emmett's been building, along with Esme."

"He built it?"

"With the right tools, I think Emmett could build anything." She pulls into her spot and kills the engine. Emmett is already right there by Bella's door, opening it to lift her out in his arms. Bella has become used to being manhandled by the Cullens, especially Emmett and Alice. She chalks it up to their collective impatience more than babying her. Rose has her chair out and Emmett settles her into it.

"Come see the house!" he says like a child at Christmas, then to Rose, "Esme just phoned and she and Alice are on the way."

Bella eyes Rose as she follows Emmett towards the house (and yes, there is a little mini-ramp up into the laundry room too). Emmett is near-bursting with something, and Rose pats his arm. "Relax. You're going to overwhelm her."

Emmett leads her through the living room, then down the hall (which is unusually wide) to a bedroom at the end with its own bath . . . and it suddenly dawns on Bella what she's actually seeing. They've had the whole house -- or at least the downstairs -- redesigned to accommodate her chair, even provided her with a bedroom she can use and a massive bath she can actually get around in. "What do you think?" Emmett asks -- demands really with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever.

"You went to a lot of effort for a guest room," Bella says, and Rose (who has trailed behind) smacks Emmett playfully on the shoulder.

"See? She has no idea what you're talking about." Rose turns to Bella. "It's not just a guest room. Your lease will run out at the end of May and now that you're done with coursework, there's not much reason for you to stay in Dawesonville -- especially since the shelter is going to be in this area. You'd need to move anyway, and we didn't think you'd be too keen on moving into that little cabin with Edward and Esme -- and you know Edward would whine until you gave in. Alice offered, but her place is upstairs over her shop and too small -- "

"Not to mention Jasper might've improved, but he's still got a ways to go with that whole 'wanna have you for lunch' thing," Emmett adds. "Rose and I won't eat you, even if you do cut your finger."

Rose smacks him again. "Emmett!"

"Well?"

Bella would laugh if she weren't still trying to process the entire proposition. "You're suggesting I move in with you?"

"Yes, exactly," Rose says.

"Think of it as an end-run around Edward," Emmett explains.

"But I . . . well, I just assumed I'd . . . I'm used to living on my own. And there are apartments I can rent, and I'd need to cook, and -- "

"Bella," Rose interrupts, "there aren't any apartments in the area that specialize in handicapped access. We checked. Helen is a lot smaller. And you haven't seen the kitchen yet."

"Come on!" Emmett says, rubbing his hands together in almost cliched glee and hurrying out. Rose waits until Bella follows, then follows Bella.

The kitchen is beautiful, large, and completely accommodating for a wheelchair. "We had to store some dishes up above," Emmett tells her, "but Rose picked out the ones you won't likely need that often, and one of us can get them down for you. There're also reachers" -- he grabs one from where it's been stored beside the fridge to wave it -- "plus a bottom freezer unit. And we got a front-loading washer and dryer too."

Overwhelmed, Bella doesn't have any idea what to say. Tears prick and she finds herself sobbing in the middle of their kitchen. Alarmed, both Emmett and Rose kneel beside her chair and Rose strokes her hair. "Bella? What's wrong?"

"All this trouble," she manages. "You went to all this trouble just for me." Emmett and _Rosalie_ . . . not Edward or Esme or Alice. Emmett and Rosalie.

"Of course we did," Emmett tells her. "It was fun. And you're our family, Bella-boo -- or good as."

"I don't want to be so much trouble," Bella manages. Her hands are still over her face, and Rose reaches up to pull them away -- not roughly, but with the impossible strength of a vampire.

"Look at me," Rose says. "Stop being silly. If we didn't want to do it, we wouldn't. You know me -- when have I ever done something I didn't want to do?"

That makes Bella laugh through her tears because it's true . . . mostly. "But do you want a third wheel? I mean, this is your home."

"And it's a big damn house," Emmett says, which is true. "It's not like we're newlyweds. We've been married longer than you've been alive, Bella. Plus we're all the way upstairs on the other end. As long as you don't mind, we don't. We've lived on our own for the last eight years; it'd be nice to have somebody else around sometimes. The only downside as far as we can see -- well, as far as Rose can see -- is that this'll mean Edward will be over here a lot."

Bella spurts laughter but Rose purses her lips and tells Emmett, "Edward will be busy in Atlanta with residency. With any luck." Then she returns her attention to Bella. "Everything's ready, so you can move in at any time."

The surprise is wearing off and the reality hitting bottom, and with it, the logistics. "I'd have to give notice at my place. Plus all our stuff, mine and Mark's . . . I mean, we had -- have -- our own furniture and dishes and things. And how would I get around? I use the bus in Dawesonville; does a bus line run all the way out here? I still have orals to finish too -- "

"Shh," Rose tells her, stroking her hair again. "We can put things in storage if we need to, once you decide what you'd like to keep. There's also storage in the basement. Nothing has to be done tomorrow. As for getting around, don't worry about that. The shelter will need a van, so we ordered one from the manufacturer that's outfitted with hand-controls so you can drive it. It hasn't arrived yet, though. They said probably not till late March."

They hear the front door opening and Esme calls, "We're here!"

Almost before the words are out, Alice has danced into the kitchen to drop down beside Emmett and Rose and lean in to hug Bella. "Isn't this wonderful?" she asks. "You'll be a ten-minute drive from me!"

"Now she'll never leave Dawesonville," Rose says, voice dry. Alice pouts.

Wiping her eyes and sniffing, Bella half-laughs, reaching out to hug Alice back. "As long as you don't make me go shopping with you all the time."

"Oh, I have to run the shop and do the shelter books," Alice says. "I won't have time for as much shopping."

"Thank God for small miracles," Bella says and Alice sticks out her tongue.

Gentle smile on her face and bearing grocery bags, Esme arrives in the kitchen. "I didn't let Alice get too many things for your room, Bella," she says. "I figured you'd have your own you'd want to keep. But we did get sheets and towels. That way, you'll have what you need when you come to visit on weekends. We do hope you'll visit more now that your tests are done . . . ?" She sounds anxious.

"_Almost_ done," Bella corrects. "I still have orals to get through. But yes, I suppose there's not much reason to stay in Dawesonville now, and I should devote more time to the shelter. I'll give notice at my place on Monday."

Alice claps in excitement and they stand. Emmett says, "I reckon I'll head out and leave you ladies to it. Where're Jasper and Edward?"

"At the cabin," Esme says as she puts away groceries. Bella wonders when they'll figure out they buy enough to feed three of her? "They were arguing over whether to watch CNN or the History Channel, last I saw."

"Those _geeks_! It's the beginning of March! We're watching _basketball_!" And he's gone before Bella can blink.

She looks up at the other three. "What did he mean, 'leave you ladies to it'? What do you have planned?"

"An all-girl weekend," Alice tells her, holding up a little bag that smells lucious. "Chick flicks, double-chocolate ice-cream -- well, for you -- and Lush in the hot tub. After the week you've had, you need to be pampered."

"A hot tub?" Bella blinks. "Vampires need a hot tub? And what's Lush?"

Laughing, Alice drops the bag in Bella's lap. "That's Lush. It's a speciality bath and soap store. Atlanta has several, and I'm considering opening a mini-sub-branch here in Helen in my shop if I can negotiate something with the mother company. Forget Bath and Body Works; you've not had a bath till you've had a Lush bath. As for the hot tub -- we like the warmth. Although we'll have to be careful so we don't burn you."

"We tend to turn up the heat high enough to cook potatoes," Esme says, grinning as she puts away the last item. "I doubt you'd like that."

Bella starts to smile. "I don't think I've been in a hot tub since -- gosh -- my honeymoon." She eyes Rose. "You put a _hot tub_ in the house?"

"Emmett has his 'sports shrine' downstairs with a massive flat screen, so I installed a mini-spa upstairs with Esme's help."

"Do you want to eat first, or soak first?" Alice asks.

"Or get a massage first?" Esme adds, holding up hands to wiggle her fingers. "I haven't used my massage skills in a long time."

Overwhelmed again, Bella sniffs to keep from breaking down for the second time in half an hour. "You weren't kidding about the pampering."

"Of course not," Alice says, sounding entirely too cheerful. "It's going to be a brilliant weekend!"

"Is that a prophecy or an order?" Bella asks.

"Both," Alice replies, wrinkling her nose playfully.

"I think I should probably start with food," Bella says after a momentary pause, "or I might pass out in the hot water."

"Your wish is our command," Esme says, fetching a skillet. "Edward says you like teriyaki; he prepared a stir-fry mix for me . . . " And she pulls little baggies from the fridge, containing precut veggies, which she dumps into the skillet and turns on a burner.

Two hours later, Bella is well fed and up to her chin in a perfumed hot tub. She's not wearing a stitch and feels a bit self-conscious being seen in all her paralyzed and pudgy glory by three women who could be supermodels -- well Rose, at least. Yet Rose was having none of that. "Quit being ridiculous. You're in pretty good shape, all things considered, and we're all girls here. You haven't got anything we don't have. Well, except a heartbeat."

So she'd given in, and once she is situated and carefully balanced so as not to fall over, the other three ditch their clothes to join her. Alice dumps five or six bars of something that smells divinely chocolate into the hot water so that when they turn on the jets, bubbles foam high and overflow onto the floor, causing laughter. Esme has brought Bella a glass of white wine and the lights are out. The room glows from two-score votive candles whose scent competes with the water, and the whole thing reminds Bella of childhood slumber parties -- albeit more sophisticated. The four of them discuss Bella's comps, Alice's business, the bar exam Rose just took, and the old farmhouse Esme found that she thinks might be suitable for the shelter. But even if the Cullens have the finances to buy the house outright, it'd be better to arrange for contributions and funding. Rose already has the shelter registered as a non-profit for the purpose of tax write-offs. She's dubbed it the McCarty House.

"It _was_ Emmett's idea," Rose says, leaning her head back against the side of the tub and letting her body float. Her breasts make pink-tipped mountains rising through the clouds of bubbles. "He's the one who pointed out that domestic violence isn't just an urban phenomenon, so it seemed . . . right . . . to name it for him."

"I think it's sweet," Esme said.

Abruptly, Rose lifts her head to look at Esme. "Does Bella know?"

"Know what?" Esme asks, fine brows pulled into a frown of confusion.

"About you -- your past?"

Bella is intrigued and leans forward.

"I told her about my son," Esme says softly.

"You should tell her the rest," Rose says, then to Bella, "Esme has as many reasons as I do for wanting to see this shelter work." But she stops there and looks back at Esme. Alice is being surprisingly quiet.

Esme hesitates. "I hate to burden my children -- "

"I'm not your daughter," Bella reminds her. "More like a . . . a sister."

"I'm not your daughter either," Rose says. "Not really. It's time to get past all that, Esme. Let's just be ourselves."

Alice looks down and says softly, "Esme can be my mother. I don't remember the one who bore me. She threw me away into a madhouse anyway."

Her words break Bella's heart but Rose sounds impatient as she says, "That's fine, Alice, but I do remember mine and as much as I appreciate Esme, she's not my mother."

Bella shifts so she can reach out to grip Alice's hand where it rests on the side of the hot tub. "We each have different needs," she says, seeking to smooth things over. Rose is still occasionally tactless. Bella looks back at Esme. "Emmett mentioned something about your story as well as Rose's a while back, but he didn't elaborate."

Esme is smiling, but it's sad. "I was a battered wife," she admits. "I didn't really love the man I married, but my father wanted the match and I wasn't . . . I wasn't _against_ the idea of marrying Charles. Back then, getting married was what a girl did. I think I was more interested in having a house of my own than I was in being his wife." She shakes her head, then goes on, "He was a hard man -- vicious. But he hid it in public. I tried to tell my mother, but she scolded _me_. I must have been a bad wife for my husband to beat me so."

Bella feels her hands ball into fists, she's so angry. "You weren't. There's no excuse for -- "

"I know that now, Bella, but I was young then, and I'd been scolded frequently enough as a girl for being a little hellion. I met Carlisle before I became a vampire, did you know that? He set the leg I broke when I fell out of a tree -- at sixteen. In my day, sixteen-year-old girls didn't climb trees." Esme smiles again. "So that tells you what I was like. My mother had despaired of me and was quick to believe I brought on Charles's rages. I probably did, but like I said, he was a vicious man anyway, and if I burned the rolls or overcooked the roast, he hit me. If his shirts weren't properly starched, he hit me. If I talked back to him in public, he hit me when we got home. I wore long-sleeved shirts even in summer because of the bruises. Finally he got called away to war -- the Great War. Drafted. It was _such_ a relief. I discovered what freedom meant, and prayed -- I'll admit it -- that he'd die in the trenches like so many others had. But he didn't. He came home."

Esme's eyes have grown distant and Bella waits for her to continue. Alice is staring at the bubbles but Rose watches Esme too. Finally, Esme goes on, "Things went right back to what they'd been before he left; if anything, he was crueler, and I despaired. Suicide seemed like the only escape but it was considered unforgivable -- those who committed it not permitted burial in consecrated ground. Yet I felt so trapped, there were days I couldn't crawl out of bed. He beat me for that too." Pausing, she tilts her head, then says, "I wish I'd had the courage -- just once -- to fight back. But I never did. I was too afraid of him. And I had no where to go.

"Six months after he returned, I discovered I was pregnant. That, finally, gave me the strength to _leave_. I couldn't bring a child into that house, so I packed my things and ran away. I wound up in Ashland, Wisconsin where I pretended to be a war widow and taught school. I gave birth to my son there, but he was a blue baby -- only lived a few days. After that, I gave up. I decided God was punishing me for being a bad wife and it no longer mattered to me whether I'd be sent to hell for killing myself. I was already in hell. So I jumped off a cliff. Carlisle found me in the hospital morgue; I wasn't quite dead yet. He saved me, then showed me what it is to live and be loved. Funny, that I had to die in order to learn to live."

This version is, Bella realizes, much more complete than what Esme had told her ten years ago at that fateful baseball game.

"So you see?" Rose says into the silence. "Esme and I both have our reasons for supporting this shelter. We got a second chance, and husbands who love us. We can't guarantee the second of those for other women, but we can offer the first."

Bella nods, understanding better.

They do nothing all weekend except talk, relax, and (for her) eat and sleep. The Cullens seem to enjoy taking care of her, but not like they had before, as if she were a delicate flower. On Sunday afternoon, it's time for her to go home and she assumes Rose will take her back, or perhaps Esme or Alice, but it's Edward's voice at the door. She's surprised to find herself glad to see him and decides not to examine that too closely. In the car on the way back to Dawesonville, she asks, "So what did you guys do all weekend by yourselves?"

"Argued over what to watch on TV."

"Who won?"

"Who do you think?"

She laughs. "So it was basketball, I take it?"

"I'm afraid so."

They lapse into silence for a while as miles pass. It's nearing dark. The day had been sunny so they'd had to wait until almost twilight before anyone could take her home. "Did you know Rose and Emmett fixed their house for me to move in there?" she asks finally.

His lips twist. "Yes. They think I'd strong-arm you into moving in with Esme and me."

"Would you?"

"_No_, damn it. You're welcome to, if you'd like, but I didn't assume it. And you don't have to move in with Rose and Emmett, either, you know. They didn't ask you first."

He sounds annoyed, but she isn't sure if he's annoyed for her sake, or for his own. "It's okay," she says.

His jaw tenses, but he keeps his eyes on the road, not on her. She wonders what he's thinking. After a moment, he says, "So it's okay if they don't ask first, but if it was me . . . " He trails off.

He's jealous. She'd like to reassure him, but it's complicated . . . so many layers -- the past, the present, his feelings, her lack of them . . . yet can she really say she doesn't have feelings for him? That would be a lie. She doesn't feel what she did once, but she was _glad_ to see him today. She _had_ missed him, and when she looks at him sometimes, the echo of the girl she'd been remembers that he is beautiful, and remembers what it was like to be so completely _consumed_ by passion that she'd lived for his touch, his smile, his kiss.

Yet she'd _loved_ Mark -- and still does. She doubts she ever loved Edward like that. She'd been obsessed by him, but too young, too insecure, and too disbelieving of her own lovability to truly love someone else, while Edward had considered himself a monster wholly unworthy of her. He'd left her 'for her own good,' and she'd considered herself so inadequate she'd believed his lies. That wasn't love; it was desperation. It had made him controlling. It had made her clingy.

Five miles pass, ten, before she decides how to answer. "It's true I would wonder more about your motivations," she admits. He glances over, clearly surprised -- either because she confessed openly to what he'd suspected, or because he'd assumed she wasn't going to reply at all. "We have so much history, you and I," she adds.

"And you don't with Rose?"

"Not the same, no." She smiles; he scoffs. "Rose doesn't do what she doesn't want to do. That makes her motives more transparent."

"So you think I have some sort of . . . _ulterior_ motives?" He sounds hurt.

"I think you do things you don't want to do because you believe it's right. That makes you honorable, not deceptive -- but you don't always consult others about what _they_ think. They might not agree with your assessment."

He frowns. "Right is right."

"In your opinion."

He sighs out in a gust. "You sound like Mark."

That makes her laugh -- then it makes her choke on a sob and alarmed, he pulls the car to the side of the highway. "Bella? Bella? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, it's okay," she says, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. "Of course I sound like Mark. We agreed on a lot of things. That's why we were married."

"And sometimes Mark and I disagreed," Edward admits. Tentatively, he reaches over to touch her cheek; she leans into his cold palm.

"You still . . . you still feel something for me, don't you?" She hesitates to call it love.

He doesn't. "I love you, yes."

"You can't; it's been years. It's just guilt -- "

"It's _not_." He snatches his hand back. "Please don't insult me. You get angry when I tell you what to feel. Don't do it to me then." His tone is sharp and she winces, cut, because he's right. "And I do know you -- I know you better than you realize. I've practically lived with you for two months, Bella. Even if I didn't know you before -- which I did -- I think I know you now pretty damn well. And I know you don't feel about me the same way I feel about you; I'm not trying to make you. That's _not_ my ulterior motive."

"I know, but that's why it's more complicated with you than with Rose. There are always two layers. I don't want to hurt you. I do _care_ about you, Edward. I really do. It's not pity. I care about you. But I loved my husband."

"I know." His voice is no longer angry, just pained. "And you don't have to worry about hurting me. I made my own bed ten years ago; I'll lie in it. I'm here, now, because I want to be, not because I feel . . . obligated."

"I still don't want to hurt you. I'm not that cruel."

He smiles, but it's bitter. "Just being back in your life . . . having you let me back in your life -- not hate me. You have every reason to hate me, but you don't. That's blessing enough."

"I was angry, Edward. You treated me like a child, but I never hated you. Yet that's why it's hard to take things from you when you don't ask first, because you _did_ treat me like a child by not asking before. You made unilateral decisions that affected me as well as you."

"I know," he says, voice even softer. "I learned. I'm trying to be better."

"And you are," she says. He just nods and puts the car back in gear, looking in the side mirror for a clear spot to pull back out on the highway. "You are my friend, you know," she tells him, to be certain he understands.

"I know that," he says still watching the road, not her. "I know."

"You were there when I needed somebody."

"And I always will be," he says, hitting the gas to pull back onto asphalt.

* * *

**Notes:** If you don't know what Lush is, you're deprived. Ha. I got dragged by my sis into the Lennox Mall store (in Atlanta) last visit home and I went wild. Lush is THE filet mignon of bath products. If you're a Lush connoisseur and wonder what Alice put in the hot tub, it was several Ma Bars. As for the "reacher" Emmett refers to, these are mobility aids for the wheelchair bound. Bar exams are usually given in June and in February, so Rose just took the Georgia bar.

As always, **thanks to everybody who reviews**. It's absolutely wonderful. Almost 180 people have this story on alert and 100 have it as a favorite. I'm so happy you all enjoy it so much. Thank you again!

We're headed into another busy week, but I hope to get at least one more chapter up before I get swamped by finals.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes:** Summer finds Bella (and Edward) in a different place.

* * *

"I'll think about it," Bella says into the phone.

"September," Irene tells her. "For your birthday. It'll be after the worst of the summer rains, but not too hot yet. We miss seeing you. The kids have gotten so big!"

"We're opening the shelter sometime in July or early August, so I'll have to see. I may not be able to get away."

"For a few days? Come on, Bella. Charlie hasn't seen you since . . . well, um, since the funeral. He misses you."

"I know," Bella says softly, but before she can say more, a light tapping on her window interrupts. Turning her head, she feels her brows climb into her bangs. Edward is perched precariously outside on the little brick sill like an overgrown squirrel. She wants to laugh, but just says to Irene, "Look, I have to go. I'll call you later."

"Later, gator. And we're serious about September. It's not just Charlie who hasn't seen you in ages."

"I know. Give Jake and the kids kisses for me."

"Will do. Bye, love."

"Bye."

Edward knocks again, one corner of his mouth curled up. He's wearing blue hospital scrubs.

She rolls over to the window, but speaks normally. She knows he can hear her. "What are you _doing_? There's a sliding glass door ten feet away. Can't you come in through that like a normal person?"

She can see (rather than hear) him sigh, but he's gone before she can blink and at the doors, letting himself in. It's not locked. The patio is awash in June sun and he sparkles in the light. She still finds that beautiful -- but also amusing. Happy, shiny vampires . . .

"What are you doing here?" she asks. "I thought you had to stay at the hospital? Isn't a resident's life slave labor?"

He grins. "We're allowed only an eighty-hour workweek now; they can't ask more of us than that. I'm supposed to be sleeping. I slipped out to drive up here."

"You're crazy. Won't somebody wonder why you're not in the call room?"

"Pretending to sleep is boring," he says, plopping down on the end of her bed, hands folded loosely between his knees. He's still grinning at her for no apparent reason.

She rolls closer so that they're almost knee to knee. "How's it going?"

"Surprisingly well." And he does sound surprised. "I haven't been tempted to eat anybody yet."

She giggles at the blunt way he phrases that despite the fact it's morbid. "Alice said it would be all right."

"Yes, but you know as well as I do that the future can change instantly. I just -- " He shrugs. "I expected it to be harder. Then again, I've not assisted in surgery yet. Mostly, it's been endless orientation."

"Do you like the people you're working with?"

"Well enough, although one of them is an arrogant little shit." He makes a face. "I'd like to say he's incompetent, but he's not. Next to me, he's probably the best new resident on the floor."

Her eyebrows go up again. "Well. We certainly have a high opinion of ourselves, don't we?"

He snorts. "Bella, I'm on my third medical degree and have an eidetic memory. Even if I've never practiced, I should _hope_ I'm at the top of my class or there's something seriously wrong with me."

Put that way, she can see his point. Sometimes she fails to factor in the vampire element, although she isn't above tweaking him about his attitude. Holding up her hands, she says, "Sorry, Dr. Masen, Resident of Medical Shock and Awe."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't comment on her leg-pulling. "At least I already know our supervising faculty." He did his medical school and internship at Emory. "My fellows aren't so lucky, and they've been pumping me all week for info -- well, everyone except Chip. He's the arrogant fellow."

"His name is _Chip_?"

"Charles-Clayton-the-third-call-me-Chip." Bella snorts at that and he goes on, "He pretends to be friendly, but -- " He taps his head, indicating that he knows what the other guy is really thinking. "He's decided he's going to 'bring me down' -- which is funny, given that I'd know any plan before he tried to implement it. He'll keep the year entertaining, at least. I think some of his problem is that he's always been the young hot-shot so he's not sure what to do with me."

"How old did you tell them you were?" Bella should remember, but doesn't.

"Twenty-six. It's not that I'm so much younger than some of them, but having the big degree" -- the Ph.D. -- "at that age makes things harder. There aren't many double-doctors under thirty. I'm starting to wish I'd stuck with GP again, or a normal extra-year specialization."

"Well, as you're actually what?, a hundred and sixteen? -- you might be considered behind the learning curve."

"Gee, thanks."

"Just trying to keep it real, Mr. Hot-shot."

His lips curl again. "That's why I need you around. You're good at doing that."

For a moment, the lightness of their conversation sinks under the weight of things unspoken and his smile falters. "All part of the job description," she replies after a beat's pause. "'Writes dissertation, runs women's shelter, knocks the wind out of the sails of know-it-all vampires.'" The awkward moment passes and he's back to smiling. "Where were you today?" she asks. "Which hospital?"

"Grady. Next week, I rotate to the V.A., then the children's hospital after that. I think I'm looking forward to that one least. I scare kids." He makes a face. "They're still enough in touch with their instincts to be sensibly afraid of the monster pretending to be their doctor."

Impatient, Bella purses her lips. "Oh, stop it with the 'monster' talk, would you? You're not a monster."

"All right, a _rehabilitated_ monster." He nods to the cell phone on her dresser, apparently ready to change the subject. "Who were you talking to earlier? About Charlie?"

"Irene, Jake's wife."

"Ah. They want you to visit?"

"I haven't been back there in over a year, and I haven't seen Charlie since the funeral." Even if others still tend to stumble over that word, Bella doesn't anymore.

"I know," Edward says now. "If it's a cost issue for the plane ticket -- " She starts to interrupt but he holds up a hand. "Let me finish." She gives in, closing her mouth. "This isn't about what you can afford; it's about what we can afford. A plane ticket is like . . . like buying you coffee. And even if you don't want to see it that way, then consider it a job benefit. You should visit your dad; it's important. He's getting older. Although if you do go, you'll have to be careful with your scent -- wash all your clothes and wait to see Jacob Black for at least two days . . . it'll give our odor time to dissipate from your person."

Bella would like to argue about the ticket, but keeps her mouth shut because the Cullens buying her a plane ticket to Seattle _would_ be the equivalent of her buying lunch for a friend. If she'd be inclined to view it as indebting, they don't see it that way. Gifts and favors are relative. So she says, "I'll think about the trip." She's more intrigued by what else he said. "What do you mean, I'd need to give your odor time to dissipate? Odor of _what_?"

"Vampires have a distinct scent. We can smell each other, and we can smell the werewolves too -- just as they can smell us. If Jacob got a whiff of you too soon, he'd know you were hanging out with vampires again, whatever you tried to tell him. Living in this house, everything you have smells like us. You can wash your skin and hair and clothes, but you'd still need to worry about your shoes, your chair, even your suitcase. I think two days is sufficient for most of it to air out, but you might take more care with the suitcase."

"Huh." She ponders the implications of that. "Letting Jacob know I'm back in contact with you and your family . . . probably not a good idea -- at least, not yet. After my senior year in high school, you're not among his favorite people."

"No, I expect we aren't. And he has every reason to think that."

"Yes, well, I don't feel like arguing with him about it. Irene would be more inclined to accept my assessment, but Jacob . . . wouldn't. He can be as stubborn as I am sometimes, and he likes to overprotect me -- sort of like somebody else I know." She lifts an eyebrow, pinning Edward with her stare. "I think it's a guy thing."

"It is a guy thing," he concedes. "Biology gears men to be protective that way; it's in the lizard brain, whether or not you like it. Add to that the fact I'm an indestructible vampire ten times stronger than you and it just gets worse. But" -- he goes on before she can explode -- "I do recognize that you're an eminently capable person, Bella. I don't try to run your life anymore, do I?"

"No." And it's true -- he doesn't. He's even stopped fussing about her work with the shelter.

Edward remains at the house through her dinner to visit, then departs to catch dinner himself -- "I have to stay satiated" -- before returning to Atlanta. She knows she probably won't see him again until the weekend and it surprises her how she misses him. She hadn't recognized how used she's become to having him around until the past few days when he hasn't been, but she's glad he chose to take a chance with this residency. However much she might tease him, Edward _does_ have a brilliant mind and like many intelligent people, grows bored easily -- then grumpy with it. He needs something to occupy him and she thinks that even with the challenge of "Chip" -- and his blood lust -- being a resident will be golden for him.

For her own part, she must hit the hay early as she, Rose, Alice and Esme have a full day ahead tomorrow. They're to join several donors and potential donors for the first-ever board meeting of the McCarty House, then they have meetings with various local agency directors to distribute information about the shelter, its contact procedures, requirements and limitations.

She takes a shower, then reads a little before bedtime. When her eyes begin to close, she shuts the book, turns out the light and rolls herself onto her stomach.

The dream begins oddly, as dreams often do. She is, inexplicably, back in a class at the University of North Florida in Jacksonville. She's not sure what class it is, and it doesn't matter. What matters is that there's a test today and she's forgotten to bring a pen. She studied; it's not that she didn't study -- but she has nothing to write with. She forgot to put her pack on the back of her wheelchair and now she's scrabbling for a pen, a pencil . . . anything at all. Growing increasingly anxious, she asks her neighbors for a loaner but none have a spare. Then somebody stops beside the table she occupies near the door. "Here," a voice says. "You can use mine." A beautiful blue faux-pearl Parker fountain pen is laid on her table.

"Thank you," she tells her benefactor. "I'll be sure to give it back afterward." She looks up.

It's Edward standing there, offering her a pen. It's not Mark, it's Edward. Even in the foggy world of dreams she recognizes this as somehow strange. What is Edward doing at UNF?

She only dimly recalls the dream when she wakes, yet she feels as if something fundamental has shifted, deep down inside.

* * *

**Thank you to everybody who's reviewed!** I'm glad people are enjoying the story so much!

As it is That Time of the Semester (finals), I'm going to be occupied for the next few weeks, so there will be a little break now before the next chapter. Fortunately, we're at a relatively good stopping spot. These chapters are mostly moving time along. :-)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes:** A crisis reverses roles and Bella arrives at a hospital to comfort a distraught Edward.

Oh, my gosh, people! I had a crazy CRAZY holiday with missed flights, broken computers and an ice storm. I was almost _relieved_ to get back to cold Alaska! Anyway, it's been over 3 weeks since I updated, but to make it up to you, I have a chapter today and will have another tomorrow, and hopefully a third by the end of the weekend ... we'll see.

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"Bella! Bella!" The banging on her sliding glass door makes Bella look up from where she sits at her desk, working on the application for yet another privately funded grant. It seemed like three-quarters of her time was spent trying to raise funds for the shelter and only one quarter devoted to the business of the shelter itself, like writing mission statements and vocational training plans, lining up counseling services, police protection, and making arrangements so that shelter kids can be enrolled in the local schools with adequate privacy.

Turning from her computer, she moves toward the doors but Alice has already let herself inside. "Come on," she says, holding it open. Her amber eyes are wide and anxious.

"Where are we going?" Bella asks, confused.

"Edward needs you."

"Huh?" The improbability of that causes her to pause, which leads Alice to dart forward at inhuman speed and propel her and her chair out the door, grabbing her purse-pack as they go.

Outside, Alice rolls her across the poured-concrete porch to the sidewalk that squares around the house towards the garage and drive. "It hasn't happened yet," Alice explains, "but it's going to. I just saw the accident; I was stocking shelves but I saw the accident and called up Jasper from his study, then I ran here. It was faster than driving through those absurd 25-mile-an-hour speed zones in town. Now we have to hurry because it's going to happen in about half an hour. We can't be in Atlanta by then, but we can be there afterward. That's when he'll need you anyway."

Alice has been babbling almost too fast for Bella's human ears to follow but the words still make her heart race, their dark, dire nature at odds with the bright day that throws rainbows off her granite skin. She risked running all the way from her shop in this summer sunlight? But then, at full speed, she moves too fast for human eyes to see more than a blur. "What accident?" Bella asks as Alice speeds them along to the garage. She's in too much of a hurry to let Bella move herself, although normally all the Cullens are hyper-conscious of Bella's desire for independent movement. "Edward isn't going to be hurt is he?" She didn't think much could hurt a vampire.

"Not Edward. He's fine. But he's on call. He's about to lose his first patient." Her voice is tense and Bella looks over her shoulder as they reach the garage. Alice opens the rear door to let them inside and dashes over to rifle through the key caddy for a spare, then dashes to the old yellow Porsche that Rose has been working on in the evenings. Rose -- and her Tesla -- are at court today while Emmett -- and his Jeep -- are over at the shelter, working on the water heater. That leaves only the newly acquired shelter van or the old Porsche. Of course Alice would choose the Porsche. "Losing a patient . . . it happens eventually to every doctor, but this is a special case." Alice unlocks the car doors, then fetches Bella, plopping her unceremoniously in the passenger seat and breaking down her chair to toss it in back. "Edward's at the children's hospital today."

"Oh," Bella says, suddenly understanding. "It's a child."

"Yes." The garage door is cranking up and Alice already has the engine started. It sounds a bit rough but at least the engine is _in_ the car. Last week, it wasn't.

Alice whips out of the garage and barrels down the private drive, headed for the little county highway to turn south. "Rose might worry about her car . . . " Bella says.

"I left a note," Alice says. Her lips are pursed in determination. "I need to concentrate, Bella. I need to keep the visions at bay so I can drive."

"Okay," Bella says and falls silent, watching the North Georgia countryside zip past at dangerous speeds. Now and then, Alice slows to the speed limit. "Cop," she explains the first time and Bella spots the concealed squad car in a hidden driveway, but once out of sight, Alice speeds up again, sliding in and out of the light traffic on the two-lane highway with grace. Once, however, she finds herself stuck behind a truck of some sort, well back in line and unable to pass. She grinds her teeth and swears under her breath too fast and too low for Bella to understand her. Then they're in the clear again and aren't forced to slow again until they hit the Perimeter. Even there, they don't have to slow much as Alice weaves around the slower-moving cars until the exit for I-85 takes them down into the heart of the city, Decatur, and Emory University.

Children's at Egleston is located right near campus. Even with the roof and tinted side windows, the sunlight glitters dangerously on Alice's knuckles where they grip the steering wheel. "Bella, I can't get out of the car to put together your chair and drop you off. I'll have to go into the parking garage."

"That's fine. I wouldn't know where to find Edward anyway."

Alice takes Clifton Road past the glassy front, turning on a side-street to enter the garage. With pedestrian traffic and college students flitting around, they have to be careful. Alice gets them parked, but then leans her forehead against the steering wheel for a minute, just breathing. Bella waits while she rides out the force of backed-up visions. Finally, she lifts her head, blinking. "He's in the residents' call room. The attending dismissed him after they informed the parents."

Then she's getting out of the vehicle, coming around to Bella's side of the car and fetching out Bella's chair, snapping the wheels on with uncommon force and Bella is glad nobody is around to see a girl who isn't five feet and shouldn't weigh 90 pounds soaking wet manhandling a titanium wheelchair like it was Styrofoam. When she has Bella in the chair, she speed-pushes her towards the elevators. "What exactly happened?" Bella asks. "And why do you think Edward needs me? What can I do?" That has been the question on Bella's mind for most of the trip actually.

"Some boys were climbing trees; one slipped and fell. He cracked his head on a tree root. It split his skull, but didn't kill him. Even so, there was really nothing Edward could have done -- nothing anybody could have done. But Edward -- he doesn't like to lose. Or fail. He's convinced that if he could've used his full speed, he could've saved him. He couldn't." Alice pauses as the elevator reaches the basement where the call rooms are. "Summer falls are common, and head injuries . . . The family lives nearby so the ambulance took him to the closest children's hospital, but it's only a level 3 trauma center. He should've been airlifted to Scottish Rite in North Atlanta, although I doubt even they could've saved him. He dies in every vision I've seen. The surgery team was trying to stabilize him enough to move him, but there's nothing they could have done. Edward has to be told there was nothing he could've done."

Bella turns her head to look up at Alice's face. She has the glassy stare of searching visions. "So why me?" Bella asks again.

Alice refocuses and turns her eyes down. Inside hospital lighting, they look yellow like a cat's. "He needs you," Alice says, as if that's self-evident. Bella starts to ask why again, then stops. She doesn't need to ask, not really. She's just being needlessly dense.

They've reached a nondescript back hallway and Alice has stopped outside a door with a heavy steel knob. She bangs on the door. For a minute, noone answers, then it opens to reveal a disheveled Edward. Bella's heart goes out to him. He looks . . . beaten. His eyes are red-rimmed from tears he can't shed and the gold-gold irises are dimmed, his shoulders are slumped and even his perfect skin looks haggard, his forehead creased in confusion upon seeking them. Alice throws herself at him and hugs him tightly. "There was nothing you could do, Edward. I came to tell you that." Then she moves back to push Bella forward. "I'll see you later." And she's gone.

Bella stares up at him and he blinks back at her. He seems stunned, but she's unsure if it's at their presence or still at the shock of watching a boy die under his care. "Edward?" she says softly.

He steps aside. "Come in."

She wheels past him. There are three beds in the call-room, or really hospital cots, two desks, a small closet and a small cabinet with a microwave and coffee pot. There's also a bathroom with a toilet and shower. It's not a big room, and at the moment, empty of anyone but Edward. There are no windows. "The attending made me leave," Edward says. His hands, Bella notices, are shaking as he shoves them in the pockets of his blue scrubs. "I guess Alice saw . . . ?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." And what was she supposed to say next? This was a new experience for her -- comforting him. Back in Forks, he'd always seemed so much older and more experienced, and after their reunion, she'd been the one in need of comfort insofar as she'd let him offer it. He'd been the strong one, self-assured, certain. He looked none of those things now. As she'd first thought upon seeing him, he looked _beaten_. "Oh, Edward," she says now, or breathes really, and then acts on instinct. She holds up her arms to him.

He drops to his knees in front of her chair and lays his head in her lap. It's such a gesture of surrender that it takes her a little aback, seeming somehow unEdwardlike. But is it? Edward isn't perfect or all-knowing. He's just a young doctor, her friend, who's lost his first patient and needs a hug. He might believe himself a monster, but he can ache, and he can cry regardless of whether he has working tear ducts. She lays her hand on his head, running fingers through his messy hair. "I'm so sorry," she says again, but with sincerity now, not uncertainty. "I'm so sorry, Edward." He doesn't sob. He just kneels there and lets her rub gentle circles on his back and slide fingers through his hair. She doesn't speak further. Neither does he.

Finally, he breaks the silence. His voice is flat and raw, not at all melodic. "He was only eight -- just eight. What the hell were his friends thinking, letting him get up in that big maple? His whole brain swelled from the impact and we couldn't stop the bleeding. It wasn't controlled like a surgery. He just bled and bled . . . " Abruptly he laughs, but it sounds more like choking. "I didn't want to drink him. It didn't even enter my head. Well, that's not true. It did, but only peripherally. I understand Carlisle now; I was too focused on saving him to think about eating him. But I didn't save him -- "

He cuts off and now he does sob, but only once, a choked sound none too different from his laugh earlier. Bella bends over him to place a chaste kiss on the side of his head. "Alice said there was nothing you could have done."

"I _could have_ worked as fast as I'm really able and to hell with the consequences -- !"

"No, Edward. She said it wouldn't have made any difference. You couldn't have saved him."

"He was only _eight_ . . ."

"Shhh," she says and kisses his hair again. It feels stiff under her lips. She returns to rubbing soothing circles on his back and shoulders. He seems fragile to her, which is funny, considering, but it strikes her that -- whatever Alice suggested -- it's not his own failure he's bemoaning. It's the child's age that he keeps repeating and which seems to have torn him up so much.

"I had to tell his parents," he manages finally. "I had to tell them he was dead. They thanked me for trying. He was their only son. They can't have another. They're good people. Simple, good people. Where the fuck is GOD, Bella? How can a _good_ God let something like this happen? I've never understood that. 'It's just God's will' -- bullshit!"

She says nothing. There's nothing to say. Edward needs to vent and she lets him.

"I could hear what they were thinking when they thanked me. They weren't lying. They don't blame me. But I do. I should've saved him. That's what doctors _do_. We save people. I've killed . . . " He stops momentarily, then goes on, "I've killed . . . too many. I need to save people. I understand Carlisle now. I finally understand him." He's repeating himself, but she senses it's important and lets him babble for a while, just continues to stroke his hair and face, shoulders and back. And somewhere, a balance rights itself. Give and take. She can't trust unless she's trusted; she can't let herself be weak unless she can also be strong. He's letting her be strong now when he needs it.

After a while, she urges him to his feet and gets him to lie down on the cot he'd claimed and pretends sometimes to sleep on. He rests with his eyes closed and she sits with him. Perhaps forty-five minutes to an hour after she arrived, the door opens to admit another resident. "I came to see how you were, buddy, losing a patient and all -- " The young man stops in the doorway, staring at her. "Who're you?"

"Bella Jackson," Bella says, turning her chair and holding out a hand to him. Behind her, she can hear Edward sitting up on the cot. "I'm an old friend," she adds, answering the unspoken question on his lips.

"Oh." He takes her hand and gives it a shake. "I'm, ah, Chip Clayton." So this is the infamous 'Chip.' He has sandy hair that falls in his eyes and bright blue eyes, and she suspects he woos the ladies with ease. There is a jaunty pull to his shoulders as he eyes her even while she knows she's not a real prospect for him. It's just his habit in the presence of a woman. "So you know Masen?"

"Yes," Bella says. She'd just told him as much, after all. He's fishing, looking for more information, but she's not inclined to bite. "We were just heading out to get some coffee." She doubts Edward wants to be trapped in the little call room with a 'sympathetic' Chip Clayton. "It was nice to meet you." She twists to see Edward's face. "Ready?"

His expression is grateful as he rises to follow her out. Chip must step aside so she can wheel past him as Edward holds the door. "You want some company?" Chip asks.

He's nosey, Bella thinks. "No," she says. "But thank you for the offer." It's polite, but final. Chip is forced to go back where he came from or stay in the room.

Fifty feet down the corridor, Edward says, "Thanks. I think I'd have throttled him if I'd had to put up with him today."

She shoots him a glance. Overhead fluorescent lights make his bronze hair look tarnished. "The secret to handling difficult people in conversations is to keep control of the exchange. Don't let him lead you."

"I'll keep that in mind, Dr. Jackson."

"I'm not a doctor yet, Edward. A long way from it. Like a whole dissertation from it. You know that."

He doesn't reply, saying instead, "Alice is coming," and stops walking, turning around. Bella stops to look and hears the patter of Alice's feet hurrying down the hall behind them. She's wearing ballet slippers with leather soles and they make a soft brush on the vinyl flooring. She hugs her brother again. "You didn't have to leave, you know," he tells her.

She just shrugs and gives him a half smile, then darts a glance at Bella. Bella doesn't have to be a mind-reader to know what she's thinking. Edward had needed release but wouldn't have been able to let go in front of them both. Male pride. One person seeing had been hard enough for him. He and Alice might've been born in the same year and she might've been older when turned, but he still thinks of himself as the big brother. It isn't lost on Bella that once he wouldn't have cried in front of her either; he'd have felt the need to be strong. She remembers what his hair had felt like under her fingers with his head in her lap and smiles up at him when he looks at her. She doesn't see perfection anymore. She sees messy hair and a willing vulnerability as he smiles back, just a little. There's still sadness in his eyes, but he smiles back.

* * *

**Thank you to everybody who's reviewed!**

The hospital, for the curious: www-choa-org/default-aspx?id=39 (replace the - with .) I've not been inside this particular hospital, but I've been in other children's hospitals and on the Emory campus. And I couldn't resist the bow to _New Moon_ with Alice and Bella rushing to 'save' Edward, Alice behind the wheel of a yellow Porsche.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes:** After facing death and life, Edward mulls over many things.

(This is the second new chapter as promised. It wound up taking longer to edit than I thought, so I'm not sure if there will be a new one by Sunday, but there will be by next week. Also, there are some controversial ideas expressed in this chapter but keep in mind I'm not necessarily advocating any of them. I am, however, trying to reflect what I think the character(s) would believe.)

* * *

He is pretending to sleep. Dim yellow light from a reading lamp seeps under his closed eyelids and the rasp of a page being turned periodically sounds loud in the call room, along with the heavy breath of Benjamin Braxton, who's fighting off a cold, and the occasional cluck of the tongue from Ted Shah. Edward wonders what Shah disapproves of in whatever article he's reading, but doesn't wonder enough to sift his mind, much less to ask. Edward just wants to be left alone, so pretending sleep is his escape. The forced elbow-rubbing of residency reminds him how much of an introvert he is. There are relatively few people around whom he likes to spend time and most of them aren't other doctors.

"Is he asleep?" Braxton asks after a while.

A pause; Edward can almost _feel_ the eyes of the other two. "Seems to be. Hey, Masen?" Shah asks, voice a bit louder.

Edward doesn't reply. Instead, he lets out a heavy breath, almost a snore, and rolls onto his stomach, hoping they won't try harder to wake him. They don't. Instead, they begin conversing in soft voices. "How is he?" Braxton asks.

"Okay, I guess. Happens."

"To you?" Braxton asks. "Have you lost anybody yet?"

"You are so fucking green, Brax. This is my third year. What do you think?"

"Baumohl said she lost her first patient on her first day."

"That'd be hell. At least he got a month or so."

"It really seemed to bother him."

"That surprises you?" Shah sounds incredulous.

"Yeah. A little. Most of the time, he seems kinda cold."

There isn't an immediate answer and Edward -- who's heard similar sentiments expressed about himself before -- resists holding it against Braxton. The words had seemed more observation than criticism and Edward senses no overt viciousness in Braxton's mind. He doesn't dislike Edward especially, even if he also doesn't like him.

"Different people cope differently," Shah says at last. Edward doesn't know the Indian-American well -- he's in a different specialization altogether, like Braxton -- but he's also older and seems at once more opinionated and more forgiving than their younger colleagues. "They say he's a genius. Maybe he has trouble connecting with normal people. Doesn't mean he doesn't care about his patients."

"Doctors aren't exactly normal," Braxton is saying.

"No, but still. Most of us don't get a Ph.D. and medical degree at 23 or whatever the hell it was. How old is he, anyway? He looks like a kid."

"I don't know. Young. But he's normal enough to have a girlfriend."

"A girlfriend?"

"I heard it from Clayton before he left."

"Yeah, and you believe anything that blowhard says?"

"Well, there were two girls here earlier. One was a tiny little thing; the other was in a wheelchair. Clayton said the girl in the chair's his girl."

Edward bites his tongue because oh, how he wishes! Yet he also feels mildly annoyed listening to them discuss him. Even when he's trying _not_ to read minds, he still can't escape being privy to others' opinions. Mind-reading is like standing in a room with other people talking. He can't help but overhear, like with this nighttime conversation. He must concentrate on something else to avoid others' thoughts. Right now, he's concentrating on what they're saying to block out what they're thinking. Ironically, it wasn't until meeting Bella -- somebody he couldn't read -- that it finally dawned on him just how rude it was to listen in. He'd felt put-upon by his ability, not guilty for the inadvertent (and sometimes not-so-inadvertent) invasion of others' privacy.

"Is she pretty?" Shah asks now, and Edward can hear the smile in his voice.

"I guess? I only saw them at a distance down the hallway. The little one was a lot prettier from what I could tell, but it's not like the other was a hag."

Shah is silent a moment, then says, "Assuming Clayton isn't full of shit like usual, a girlfriend in a wheelchair might explain why he's in neurology. It's not a specialization I'd choose. Internal med's hard enough." There is the decisive thump of a book being shut. "Anyway, I'm going to try to catch some zzzs before I get paged. Night."

"Night."

The light goes out.

Edward waits until their breathing evens out and their heartbeats calm. Their minds have faded into indistinct images and random flashes. Then he sits up cross-legged on his cot, elbows on knees and hands folded in front of his mouth. Despite Bella and Alice's comfort earlier, he's still feeling hollow inside and slightly sick to a stomach that otherwise no longer works. He thinks about going down to the morgue to see the body again, but that would be morbid, and salt in the wound. Besides, it's probably been picked up by a funeral home by now. He wonders if he should attend the funeral? But Atlanta isn't a small town and he didn't known the boy before. He was just there at the end, trying to stuff his brain back inside his skull and then, when that failed, pronouncing him at 1:56 pm. He knows Rosalie, the lawyer, would tell him not to go: 'It might seem like an admission of guilt and invite a malpractice suit.' She'd be right, of course. It bothers him that she'd be right and that he won't do it _because_ she'd be right and they -- he -- must be so very careful not to invite serious investigation. What kind of country has this become that an act of solidarity can be twisted into evidence of incompetence?

It bothers him even more that Braxton assumed he wouldn't care about losing a patient. Did he truly seem that cold? But he knows he does. He cultivates it to keep others at a distance. And sometimes, if he's really honest, there are those whose survival he doesn't care about.

He _should_ care, of course; human life is precious. That conviction is why he came back to Carlisle and Esme, and why he pursues this 'vegetarian' lifestyle even though it means he's never without hunger. And yet there's an ugly, arrogant side of him that likes the human race better _in_ the abstract than as individuals. Truth is, he finds most people a bit tedious, their minds full of trivialities, their motivations selfish, their viewpoints parochial, and their lives ultimately meaningless. Parasites on planet earth. Of course, he thinks of himself that way too sometimes.

Edward is an elitist.

He doesn't really like this judgmentalism, but is honest enough to admit it's there. How would he have reacted today if the boy who'd died had been the street bully instead of the street tag-along? If his parents had been the obnoxious sort who cursed opposing teams at ballgames and always assumed more than their fair share? What if they'd blamed him or the other boys for their son's death and ran to consult a lawyer at their earliest opportunity? But they hadn't been that kind. They'd been terrified and grief-stricken, unable to wrap their minds around the fact their shy, quiet son was dead. Why did it have to be people like that who suffered such tremendous loss? It had killed him to deliver the news, to watch the mother's dark face crumple like a wadded up broadsheet, see the father go blank with a sorrow beyond tears. They would never get over this day and Edward will keep an eye on them, be certain one or the other doesn't do something drastic. Yet if one tried, would he halt it? He isn't sure. He understands exactly what it feels like to have lived too long. Parents aren't supposed to bury their own children.

But what if little Roland Saunders _had_ been a bully boy? Would his death have been any less tragic? Could Edward have felt compassion enough to be gutted anyway? Carlisle would. Carlisle would have fought to save any child -- any _person_ -- regardless of worthiness, and would mourn the loss if he'd failed. When Edward could do the same, he'd have earned the right to wear the name 'physician.'

_I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant ... I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures that are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism ... I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug ... Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God._

He had to remember that. Only God was all-seeing enough to judge. Not Edward Masen Cullen, mind-reader extraordinaire or not.

"People are what life makes 'em, man. If life kicks you around, you kick back. If kids only see violence, that's all they'll show. Did you know most violent criminals in the prison system were beaten or abused in some way themselves as kids? Bullies learn to be bullies. Arrogant assholes learn to be assholes. Intolerant jerks learn to be jerks. We aren't born that way."

Those hadn't been Carlisle's words, or even Jasper's, although Edward knows Jasper would agree with them. They were Mark Jackson's -- one of many conversations Edward had shared with Bella's late husband about ideals and ideologies. Mark hadn't been talking about Edward, even if Edward were honest enough to know _he'd_ been an intolerant jerk on more than one occasion. He was trying to be better.

Tired of sitting and disinclined to lie back down and pretend to sleep, he slips his feet into his blue-covered shoes, grabs his phone, and eases open the door with vampire stealth, but neither Braxton nor Shah react.

He makes his way outside. It's a dark night past the glare of hospital spotlights or the pools of yellow thrown on campus sidewalks from street lamps. The air is muggy, damp and heavy like his thoughts. He doesn't go far. There are some benches around the side of the building. Staff goes there to smoke, but right now, it's empty. He ignores the litter of white and orange butts and the overflowing ashtin, sitting down to open his phone and connect to the internet, then sets up Skype to dial. He isn't really expecting an answer. It's mid-morning in Afghanistan and Carlisle isn't likely at his computer, nor does he carry a Blackberry with him at all times. Devices like that can be misinterpreted by the locals, leading them not to trust him, think him a spy.

And indeed, there's no answer. Edward sighs, not fully realizing until that moment how much he'd needed to talk to his mentor. He must settle for email, but faced with a blank entry box, isn't sure what to text. He counts on Carlisle to ask the right questions sometimes, so he sends simply, "I lost a patient."

He spends time surfing until his beeper goes off, then must hurry inside to NICU. One of the little ones is having a seizure. It's not that serious -- relatively -- but handling these tiny ones scares him. One instant of carelessness and he could crush their bones. This baby is smaller than most, barely two pounds, born at only twenty-six weeks, and that's not old enough. He's had three surgeries in three days and 29 separate seizures, and with all the machines keeping him alive, he looks more like a cyborg than an infant. Reading his chart, Edward doesn't think he'll make it ultimately. If he does, his life will never be normal, but tonight isn't his time to leave this earth. Edward checks him to be sure he rode out the seizure with no immediate consequences while his exhausted mother weeps in a chair, clutching her rosary. She's a child herself and Edward wonders why she decided to carry this baby and keep it. He's not in favor of abortion but he's not entirely against it either. To his mind, being truly _pro-_life sometimes means ending it. He brushes the child's mind and there are no real thoughts there, even fuzzy baby-thoughts. He's suffered too many seizures and if he survives, he'll be severely retarded, perhaps profoundly so. His mother . . . she has no idea what she's facing, she has no job, no education, no father to help her, and if Edward pushes right _here_, he could cut off blood flow to the brain long enough to cause a fatal attack. The nurses are all just waiting for the next seizure to carry off the baby anyway.

_And there you go,_ he scolds himself, _playing God again._ But is it playing God to let this boy die, or to keep him alive past anything nature intended? Edward doesn't have the answer; instead, he sits down beside the mother. "Is he going to be okay?" the girl asks. He can hear her mind tumbling over itself with worries like caring for the child alone if he lives, or how to pay for his burial if he doesn't -- how to pay for any of this. She hates her son almost as much as she loves him, and is trapped by hope and dread and guilt.

"He's okay for now," Edward tells her. A nurse is bustling in the background.

"He's going to die from one of them, isn't he? From one of those seizures?"

Edward should trot out reassurances, should say something like, 'We're doing our best to be sure that doesn't happen.' But she's too worn out, and too hardened, to believe cotton-candy promises. She's only fifteen, but there are already brackets around her mouth and lines in her forehead. "I don't know," he says instead.

"Mama said they shouldn't have saved him. God meant him to die. But I don't know. We just have to believe that whatever happens, it's God's will."

_'God's will.'_ How Edward hates those words. He hears them too often; he heard them that afternoon from the parents of the boy he'd lost. Edward doesn't believe that deaths like that boy's, or suffering like the premie's in the incubator behind him are ever God's will -- or God is sadistic. It's easier to believe that God is simply indifferent. Or there is no God . . . but Edward can't quite make himself believe in a godless universe, much as he'd like to. His failure at atheism leaves him bitter.

"I need to go outside for a cigarette," the mother is saying.

"Do you want me to call a chaplain to sit with you?"

She shakes her head as she paws through her purse. "It's three in the morning."

"The hour isn't an issue," he says but she shakes her head again. She's found her cigarettes and pulls one from the pack, turning it in nervous tan fingers.

"I know I shouldn't smoke," she says. "I can't even buy these -- not legally. If he lives, I'll quit."

"There are things we can prescribe that will make quitting easier."

"I don't have insurance."

"Doctors get samples. Come and talk to me later." He gives her his card and excuses himself. His phone rings less than a minute later and it's Carlisle.

He goes outside where they can talk. "I'm sorry," Carlisle begins even as Edward blurts, "What do you say when they say, 'It's God's will?'"

That wasn't where he'd meant to begin, but it's at the top of his mind right now. He can feel Carlisle's surprise, but the other man takes it in stride as he usually does. "People need reasons. Meaningless suffering is hard to take. Believing that an omniscient God has a plan is reassuring; it makes us feel less helpless."

"How is it reassuring to think God lets the innocent suffer?!"

"I know you've read the _Book of Job_, Edward."

"I'd side with Job's friends and tell him to curse God and die. God's answer there was pathetic: I'm God, so don't question me?"

"How many parents have said as much to their children because the child wasn't old enough to understand?"

Edward frowns. "I'm not a child. And I never liked that answer even when I was."

"But you're not them. Let people have the answer that comforts them, Edward. It's not your job to correct their theology, and I don't think debating theology is why you called me anyway. Tell me what happened."

So Edward does, and is crying again by the end even if he has no tears to shed. Carlisle is perhaps the only other person besides Esme -- and Bella -- who he can release to like that.

"I wish I could be there," Carlisle tells him.

"You are," Edward replies. "You called me back."

"Of course I did. But I meant in person."

"You have your own life, Carlisle. You spent almost a century raising me. I think I can be a grown-up now."

"You've been a grown-up for a long time, but even grown-ups need comfort."

"Bella came," Edward confesses. "Alice saw it, and brought her."

"Good. I'm glad she was there for you. Even more, I'm glad you let her be there for you." Carlisle is interrupted by some commotion in his vicinity and says, "I must go. They're bringing in new patients. But remember Edward, you're a doctor, not a miracle worker. I know you don't like not having the answer or saving the day, but it's all right if you don't. We all pledge: 'I will not be ashamed to say 'I know not,' nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery.'"

Ironic that Carlisle should quote him part of the Hippocratic Oath when he'd quoted part to himself earlier -- but it's a different part, and that doesn't escape him. "Thank you," he says. "I'll talk or write to you later."

"You'd better. Be well, Edward."

Edward puts away his Blackberry and looks up at the stars. "I know not," he says softly.

* * *

**Thank you to everybody who's reviewed!**

The _Book of Job_ in the Bible deals with the whole question of why bad things happen to good people. The various quotes come from the (modern) Hippocratic Oath taken by newly minted doctors. That's probably evident by the end, but I wanted to be sure I'd properly attributed them.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes:** After months of preparation, the shelter finally opens amid minor pomp and fanfare. Esme prefers to duck the spotlight.

* * *

It isn't her project. She didn't come up with the idea; that was Rosalie. She didn't devise how it should be organized and run; that was Bella. She didn't figure out how to pay for it; that was Alice and Bella.

Yet her heart swells with pride today as the pink ribbon that bars the entry to the front porch is formally cut. THIS -- the building itself -- this is her contribution. Esme is not one for theory and ideas. She expresses herself best in the concrete. In that, she is much like Emmett, and although she loves Edward best (deep in her secret heart of hearts), it is Emmett who she's always _understood_ best. Now, they stand side-by-side and hold hands, watching as Rose, Alice, Bella and six other members of the executive board ceremonially cut the ribbon to open the house. "You should be up there," Esme tells him. "This house has your name on it."

"And you built it. Well, more or less. But I don't see you up there either."

Esme shrugs. "I don't like the spotlight."

"I don't either -- well, not for this stuff. But Rose likes it. I have to be at the party at the house later anyway, so I'm laying low till then."

Esme goes to the reception for a little while. She prefers to be the hostess rather than a guest and withdraws to Rose's kitchen inside fifteen minutes, overseeing the food trays. Edward finds her there. He traded shifts in order to have the night off so he could "escort" Bella. He doesn't call himself her date, even if he is. She isn't ready, and he isn't rushing. Affection has blossomed between them slowly this time, although Esme has seen how Bella looks at Edward now. It's transformed into gentle smiles and easy touches, and an assumption of body familiarity that only old friends have, or old lovers. They position themselves the same, and make similar gestures. If Edward runs a hand through his hair, Bella echoes it within five minutes. Esme doesn't think that intentional. And they've learned to speak again with just a glance.

Esme resents it less than she had last autumn. Perhaps she's just accustomed herself to the idea, or perhaps she no longer fears being left alone. Carlisle will be home in six months. It's funny how her anticipation of that has made it easier to let Edward go. She no longer feels so desperate.

"I figured I'd find you in here," Edward says now, approaching to lean back against the counter beside her as she removes cellophane from plastic trays of cheese and fruits, vegetables and cold-cuts. "Are you hiding?"

"No more than you," she tells him, folding the cellophane in case they need it for left-overs. Waste not, want not. She is no child of a disposable society. Not that _they_ need the food but anything that remains will go to one of the soup kitchens or be kept for the shelter, although just now, there are no residents to eat it.

"I had to get away from the crowd out there for a few minutes." Edward taps his temple to mean the overwhelming flow of thoughts in the crowd. "Plus Bella told me I was 'hovering.'"

She smiles at this. "Were you?"

"Maybe. A little."

"You know she doesn't like that."

"I know. But it's a lot less trouble for me to fill her punch glass for her -- and anyway, she has people to 'chat up,' as Rose puts it."

"Rose is in her element."

"Of course. It's all a show." He makes a face.

"It's not a show, Edward. This shelter isn't a _show_."

"I know that -- "

"Rose understands the importance of publicity. So does Alice -- and even Bella. They're doing what's necessary to get donors. It's just . . . not my thing."

"You and me both. Rose is dragging Emmett all over, and Alice made Jasper stay for half an hour. Then he fled."

"You'd like to go with him."

"Yes. And no. Bella might need me -- "

Esme laughs. "I hope Bella appreciates that you traded shifts just so you could put on a tux and be bored at her elbow all night."

That had come out more catty than she'd meant it and she ducks her head, but sometimes she's a little frustrated with Bella. It's not that she blames Bella for grieving -- Esme lost a child -- or even for her skepticism of Edward. But Edward is Esme's _son_, even if he isn't, and she will always stand securely in his corner. She wants Bella to hurry up and recognize the value of what's waiting on his knees for her to take him back.

"She does," Edward says now, and Esme wonders if he's responding to her verbal question, or to her thoughts. "She told me I didn't have to do this. I wanted to, Esme."

"Her telling you that you didn't have to be here is different from appreciating that you are here."

"She appreciates it," he says, and she pauses to look him in the eye, or as close as she can. He's too tall. "She _does_," he insists. "But she's not ready for more. If she was . . . well, she needs to work through her mourning first. I don't want to be the rebound."

"I know. She does love you, I think."

"Don't say that -- "

"She does, Edward. I can see it in her face. She may not realize it yet, but she loves you."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and she smiles at the familiar gesture of frustration. "I don't want to get my hopes up -- "

"I'm not talking about hope. I see what I see. She isn't ready -- you're right about that. But she loves you. Besides, do you really think Alice would have let it get this far if she thought Bella would break your heart?" That's her trump. Even without what she reads in people's faces, Esme trusts Alice's visions.

"No, she wouldn't," Edward says. "She won't tell me, not really . . . but she's encouraging me."

"Which is as good as telling you."

He snorts and pushes away from the counter, going back out to Rosalie and Emmett's perfectly appointed, cathedral-ceilinged living room. Esme gets the old trays changed out for new ones, then makes her excuses to Rose, who just smiles and grips her hands in thanks. Rose isn't always unappreciative. Esme glances across the room to where Bella talks to two donors -- and there is Edward at her elbow. "This is Dr. Ed Masen," Esme hears her introduce him. "Esme Masen's younger brother -- Esme did most of our shelter's restoration. Dr. Masen will be coming in to handle our clinic twice a week. It's not every shelter who can boast a brain surgeon on the staff." It sounds like a well-rehearsed joke but the donors laugh anyway and nod to him, and he smiles. That's his job tonight: smile when Bella trots him out.

"So where do you work the rest of the time?" one of the donors is asking him.

"I'm doing a residency at Emory down in Atlanta."

"Ah . . . "

Esme loses track of the conversation as she ducks out a back door. She's done her time and escapes while she can. The reception is in Rosalie's capable hands.

Deciding to drive by the shelter one last time on the way back to the cabin, she hits the breaks when her vampire eyes spot movement on the porch. Turning off the main road onto the drive, she pulls up under the carport and stops the car, turning it off. There's no movement at all now. Whoever it is, is hiding, and Esme wonders if she's interrupted a break-in, but the sound of several elevated heartbeats tells her the trespassers are scared. Getting out of the car, Esme is slapped by the strength of adrenaline in human blood . . . so, so sweet. She wishes for some of Carlisle's control, and thinks of him as she approaches the shelter porch. "Hello?"

Nobody answers. The hearts are hammering now. If she were a normal human woman, she'd be anxious, so she tries to mimic that, gripping her keys tightly and moving with hesitant steps. "Who's there? I know somebody's there. I'm not going to hurt you. I work here -- well, sort of. Please come out."

Still no answer, but Esme can sense that those waiting haven't run either, so she mounts the stairs and stops at the top, turning to the night-dark area behind the porch swing. "Please come out," she says again.

A long minute passes, then a soft voice speaks. "How did you know we were here?" It's a woman, and Esme lets her muscles relax. But the question is shrewd, and Esme realizes she's inadvertently made a mistake.

"I, ah, saw someone moving on the porch," she says.

"_From the road in your car?_" The voice is incredulous.

"I have good eyes. I was coming to the shelter anyway to check and be certain the door was locked. I thought I saw movement, and when I got out, I heard a noise."

"We -- I -- didn't make a noise."

"You must have -- "

"I didn't."

"Please come out. I won't hurt you." Esme thinks it wiser to change the subject.

Almost half a minute passes before, finally, the shadows shift and a figure stands. Esme can smell her fear, strong like red wine. Her blood pounds in her veins. "I heard the shelter was open."

"It is. How did you find it? It's suppose to be hidden." Has their secrecy already been lost?

"I talked to a cop," the woman says. "She gave me the address. She was going to bring me, but I wouldn't let her. When I got here, nobody was here. I can't go back home now though." The woman steps forward, coming a little more into the illumination of Esme's headlights. She looks young. "I'm Hannah."

"Hi, Hannah. I'm Esme."

"You really work here?"

"Yes." Esme holds up her keys. They jingle in the night air. "Let me unlock the door and you can come in."

Esme busies herself getting the door open and the lights on and the thermostat turned up, and then Hannah is standing in the doorway, flanked by three children. She's nothing remarkable -- of average height with dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes and a slightly weathered face, no makeup, even to cover the bruises. "Come in," Esme tells her. "Welcome to the McCarty House."

"We don't have anything -- no clothes or nothing. No personals."

"That's okay. We do. That's what we're here for."

She pulls out her phone. "Just a minute. Let me call our director and let her know we've got residents." She speed dials and Bella answers. "Come to the shelter," Esme tells her, keeping a smile on her face for the obviously twitchy Hannah and her kids. "We have clients."

* * *

**Thank you to everybody who's reviewed! I do my best to answer all signed reviews, but to those who didn't sign-in, please accept my thanks this way. :-)  
**


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes:** There are bumps, and Bella has an enlightening conversation with Esme.

* * *

Hannah Jones and her children last seven days -- one week -- before giving up and returning home. By that point, the McCarty House hosts a second family, but to see their first clients back out is still disappointing -- for none more so than for Esme. Perhaps Bella should've anticipated Esme taking under her wing every woman who came through their doors, but she didn't. She'd spoken to Rose at the outset and knows that Rose entertains few illusions about shelter success rates, having worked with them in Nashville, and she had similar chats with Emmett, Alice and even Edward, who'd read articles about spousal abuse while in med school. But she overlooked Esme, probably because she'd assumed Esme's contribution would be fixing up the house itself, not its occupants. Yet Hannah is only a little older than Esme was when she left her first husband -- plus Esme was the one to find her.

It's classic projection. Esme sees herself in young Hannah, and for the seven days Hannah had stayed there, Esme had spent hours with her, teaching her the basics of interior design, or sharing experiences (her own _much_ modified). So when Hannah gives in finally to the persistent attempts by her family and in-laws to convince her to go home, Esme is heartbroken.

"She's out back in the garden gazebo," Rose tells Bella on Sunday morning. Rose had, actually, tried hardest to convince Hannah to stay, using her usual blunt honesty. "You can go home if you want to, but we'll see you here again in three months, or four, or five . . . however long it takes to realize this new leaf he's turned over will last only till he's really frustrated again and takes it out on you. Or your kids. That's what'll make you stay away finally -- when he starts hitting your daughters."

"What a horrible thing to say," Hannah had snapped even as she'd shut the small bag of personal items she was taking with her.

"I'm honest."

"And he's a good Christian man! He just strayed and this was his wake-up call. But he found the Lord again -- which is more than I can say of you, Ms. Hale."

"He found an excuse to bring you back so you can clean his house and cook his meals and be his punching bag when he's mad at the world."

"I wouldn't expect somebody like you to have faith."

"And I don't -- because I have yet to see a single one of these instant-change cases turn out to be real. It takes anger management classes and some serious marital counseling. If he really wants to change, he'll go to therapy."

Bella had sat in her chair in the corner and listened . . . and thought of Edward. Change was possible, but Rose was right -- it didn't happen overnight.

So Hannah had left that morning, Rose driving her to the prearranged drop-off place where her mother and husband would collect her and the kids. At departure, she'd hugged only Esme. "I'll be okay," she'd promised.

"I'll pray for you," Esme had replied. And it was too sincere for any irony at the notion of a vampire praying for a human.

Now, Bella makes her way out to the small gazebo in the back rose garden. The garden is Esme's indulgence. Bella had insisted that she _not_ go all-out remodeling the house. "Make it nice, but it should look like it was done on a budget. We have to account for all in-coming funds and out-going expenditures. Even more, we don't want to overwhelm the clients. They won't all be poor, but humiliation from charity doesn't help anyone." Bella could recall even now how the Cullens' wealth had once made her feel small and worthless.

And so Esme had restrained herself . . . until the garden. "They need a beautiful place," she'd told Bella -- and had refused to back down. So Bella had given in to the shadows of remembered ugliness in Esme's gold eyes and let her create her garden.

So Bella wheels her way down the pavement past roses of every description, climbing clematis covering trellises in purple and white, rich pink honeysuckle and yellow jasmine, all under the shadow of a Muskogee Myrtle. It's late in the summer and the tree's purple blossoms have finally faded, dropping onto grass and concrete indiscriminately.

Esme isn't sitting in the gazebo, as Rose had said. She has pruning sheers and is working, her lips set hard but her clip-clip gentle. She won't punish the roses. "I'm fine," she tells Bella before Bella can even speak. "But the roses have aphids."

"Leaving an abusive husband is like quitting smoking," Bella tells her. "You know it's good for your health, but it usually takes more than one try before you're successful."

"I never smoked. Proper wives didn't, then." Three snips sound before she adds, "And I stayed away the first time."

"You had strong motivation -- protecting your unborn baby."

"She has _three_ children!"

"But the abuse has been getting worse gradually. There's not been a sudden change. My dad told me that he just decided to quit smoking one day and threw away a brand-new carton of cigarettes he'd got from Billy Black for Christmas. But most people _don't_ quit cold turkey like that. Likewise, it's common for battered wives to go back at least once, sometimes several times until there's a real crisis -- when he pulls a gun or a baseball bat instead of just using his fists and she winds up in the hospital. This was Hannah's first taste of freedom and she's fighting everything she's been raised to believe about good wives and marriage. Plus her husband is making all the right noises. He might even mean it. But abuse is systemic and the system works to keep women in abusive situations just like it works to turn boys abusive in the first place." Bella takes a breath, then adds, "You can't get attached Esme. We can't save them all -- "

"What do you know about it?" Esme hisses suddenly, throwing the pruning sheers with such force they embed a foot deep in the earth at Esme's feet and send dirt flying up like a mad mole. "_You've_ not lived it! You don't know what it's like to be . . . to be _terrified every day of your life_! To think there's _no_ escape except death! To believe you're just a bad wife and if you could be _good enough_ he'd love you instead of hate you! Edward _adores_ you and thinks you can do no wrong!"

This outburst takes them both aback. Bella has _never_ seen Esme lose her temper like that. She's normally so gentle and understanding, it's unnatural. And perhaps that's the problem -- it _is_ unnatural and Bella realizes that for the first time, she's heard the _real_ Esme, the one who typically hides under Nineteenth Century ideas of a proper woman.

To be honest, Bella likes angry Esme better.

"You're right; I've never been through it personally," she answers simply. "But I never pretended that I have, either."

The fight goes out of Esme and she sinks down on the earth, arms wrapped around herself as she kneels in the dirt. She's wearing a straw gardening hat with a bright yellow bow. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm glad you've not been through it."

"It's all right," Bella tells her, leaning forward a little in her chair but not rolling toward Esme yet. "I'd rather you were honest, you know. You don't have to censor everything you say. The fact you _have_ been through this makes you invaluable. But it can also . . . it can be a pitfall, Esme. If you start seeing yourself in them, instead of seeing them, then we've got a problem. You'll be trying to rescue Esme, not Hannah -- or whoever's next. It's called projection. Not only is it okay for you to be honest, you _need_ to be honest so you know what you're bringing into the room."

Esme doesn't answer immediately, but after a moment, she looks up at Bella and her face seems _old_. "I don't . . . I don't _regret_ what happened to me, not really, because look what came of it. Carlisle and I have talked about this -- several times. But sometimes I'm still so _angry_ that it had to happen at all."

"Of course you are," Bella says. "It was wrong, and it shouldn't have happened in the first place."

"I want to move on, but I'm not sure how, except not to think about it."

"That won't let you move on," Bella says and rolls forward finally as Esme pushes herself to her feet. "There are two mistakes survivors tend to make. They either try to excuse what happened to them by saying, 'Look where I am now; it all worked out.' Or they try to bury and forget about it. Neither works. Even if you came out stronger for it, that still doesn't make what happened to you _right_. And you can't bury it, or like a corpse, it'll start to stink up your life."

"But it's overwhelming!" Esme says and rubs beneath her eyes. "Even now. I tell Carlisle I don't remember. I pretend the change made me forget. But I _do_ remember. Oh, Bella -- I do. I remember what Charles did to me, how it hurt. I remember huddling up in the back of the broom closet when he'd come home angry, hoping he'd get a few glasses of whiskey in him and mellow down. But sometimes, it just made him angrier. He broke my collarbone, and my ribs, and I had to hide it. He used his razor strap on my backside and thighs where nobody else would see -- " She breaks off speaking and sobs dry tears. Bella rolls even closer and reaches out to grip her hand, damning the chair and how it prisons her.

"Nothing I did was ever good enough. I burned the bread, or made the soup too watery, and I couldn't sew to save my life. I was terrible at it -- I still am." She laughs. "Alice has tried to teach me time and again how to sew my own curtains, but I can still barely sew a straight stitch as a vampire! And you think you're clumsy? I was no better and probably worse. I broke things constantly, I was so nervous of him.

"I'll never forget the day I left -- what that felt like. I was so . . . _free_. I remember that I saw a red-tailed hawk when I was walking to the train station. I ran when he was in Columbus on business, and that morning, as I was walking to catch the train to Wisconsin, there was a red-tailed hawk sitting on a fence post up ahead of me on the road. He was just sitting there, watching me. I got quite close before he took off in a burst. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. That's how I felt -- like that hawk. No jesses, no hood. Free."

She is gripping Bella's hand hard enough it grinds the small bones together and Bella tries not to wince, but can't quite manage to keep the pain off her face. Realizing it, Esme makes a little sound and releases her hand. "Sorry!"

"It's all right." And it is, but she still rubs her fingers. "Thank you -- for telling me all this."

"I told Hannah too," she says. "A modified version -- but it was true, about the hawk. I thought she might feel the same . . . "

"I think she did, Esme. But I also think you're a lot tougher than people think. You managed to free yourself on a first try; a lot of people can't."

"I gave Hannah my cell phone number and made her promise to call me if she needs help -- no matter what happens or what time it is. Or to call if she just wants to get coffee and visit." Her face is thoughtful. "I think she actually might call."

"That trust is more than Rose or I built with her."

"Rose is sometimes impatient. She means well, but -- "

"Both approaches are important," Bella says. "Sometimes it takes some empathy, but sometimes it takes a kick in the pants. I'm not that good at either one, really."

"You are," Esme protests. "Look at you now." She smiles. "You're listening to me."

"After torquing you off first," Bella points out. "But like I said, I prefer it if you're honest. And you're still much better than I am at the empathy thing. But I do know a little about the whole psychology of battered wives. I'm not a therapist, but I've read a lot and it's not uncommon for them to wind up going back to their husbands at least once, and sometimes twice or three times. Some never really get out of the cycle at all. You can't take that personally. _You_ aren't failing. All we can do is offer an opportunity and do our best to help them accept it. Not everybody will."

Esme nods, but Bella isn't sure whether the words got through or if she's just agreeing to be agreeable. They sit in silence for a minute, and Bella debates going back to something else Esme had said -- or whether she even wants to open that can of worms. But she might never get another opportunity. Esme is rarely so forthcoming about her real thoughts and feelings.

"You said that Edward adores me and thinks I can do no wrong," she begins after a minute, cautiously. Esme is looking down, but doesn't deny it. "You do realize that once-upon-a-time, I felt completely unworthy of him, right? I had the same feelings of inadequacy around him that you had around your first husband."

Her mouth falls open in clear shock. "But Edward never beat you!"

"No, of course not. He just protected me to death and tried to make my decisions for me."

Esme's face hardens again. "Well, you were very young, Bella, especially to us. A good husband or boyfriend protects his wife or girlfriend. Edward was being a gentleman."

"Overprotection doesn't make an equal partnership. Looking back, I realize that a lot of why I felt inadequate was helped along by Edward's so-called 'gentlemanly' behavior. When he stopped trying to be such a gentleman and let himself be just Edward, we got along better."

Esme still seems to have trouble either understanding or accepting what Bella is saying. "He was raised to treat a woman with respect."

"Overprotection isn't respect, Esme. It just turns one of a pair into the child in the relationship. Carlisle _doesn't_ treat you like that. He asks your opinion and he doesn't . . . hover . . . when you don't need it."

She still seems confused. "But I'm a vampire. Of course he doesn't hover. You're human. You're breakable."

It makes Bella smile. "Breakable, yes. Obviously. Helpless, no."

Realizing what she just inadvertently said, Esme's hand goes to her mouth and her eyes drop to Bella's chair involuntarily. If she'd had blood, she would've been blushing. "It's okay, Esme," Bella says. "You're right. I am breakable compared to you. And I've stopped being quite so twitchy about accepting help from people. Being in the chair aided that, ironically. Like Mark used to say -- it's a weak person who can't let anybody do anything for him. It's all in how it's offered. Edward's gotten a lot better, and more to the point, he lets me do things for _him_ sometimes. Even in your day, isn't that what _good_ husbands and wives did? Take care of each other? Lean on each other? Even if both of them did the most traditional jobs possible for their gender, if it's a _partnership_, that's what makes it equal. Back in Forks, Edward didn't let it be a partnership -- so I felt unworthy."

Esme tilts her head. "Oh, Bella. You're only half right. Back in Forks, you did something for Edward no one has ever been able to do before -- you taught him how to open up and really love. He was . . . _closed_ . . . for so long. But with you, he was a different person -- not so distant . . . ready to risk. It was just hard after _being_ closed for so long -- like watching a rose bloom." Reaching out, she touches a white bud. "They don't open in a day like a morning glory."

It is, Bella thinks with surprise, an insightful observation, and not something she'd really considered before. Edward might have been over a hundred when she'd met him, but it had been his first time being in love, too, and coming to it at such a late age, it must have been harder. "He's open all the way now," she says thoughtfully.

"Yes, I think so," Esme replies, and eyes Bella. "Don't let him turn brown on the stem."

Bella shakes her head. "I'm not ready for that, Esme. I still miss Mark."

"Of course you do. You'll always miss him. I still miss my baby. But wouldn't you also miss Edward?"

"Well, yes, of course." But her words are more a reflexive than honest answer, Bella realizes. She doesn't want to examine too closely what Edward makes her feel. "It's not the same, though."

"Not yet," Esme agrees.

* * *

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**


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes:** Headed to Forks to visit her father, Bella is driven to the airport by the most elusive of the Cullens.

That I should post _this_ particular chapter on MLK Day was _not planned_ ... but it's a case where serendipity makes it all work out. Honestly, this chapter -- or portions of it -- was written _months_ ago, then modified in November.

* * *

A horn sounds outside and Bella watches Emmett role his eyes. "Ass," he mutters as he snatches Bella's bags and darts out the door at vampire warp-speed, leaving Bella to follow. But he left the door open so she exits easily, taking the ramp down to the circular drive where a yellow Porsche sits waiting, motor running. The driver guns it, teasing Emmett, who has the trunk open. Rosalie finally finished with the car a month ago and no sooner was it ready than Alice claimed it for herself. Rose hadn't argued. She rebuilds cars for her own enjoyment, not because she wants a garage full.

It's not Alice driving today, however. Jasper sits behind the wheel and Bella is a little surprised. He's been unfailingly polite since returning to the family, and he and Bella sometimes share amusing instant-message conversations in the middle of the day. She's found him more verbose in print than in person. Yet he's kept a certain distance around her. The two of them haven't discussed it but Alice confided that -- however far Jasper's control has come -- he still lives in fear of repeating events from that disastrous birthday party a decade ago. A decade almost exactly, in fact. Today is September 10th and in three days, Bella will turn 28. It's been not quite a year since Mark died and the Cullens re-entered her life. After almost ten years without them, it's seems surreal how interlaced her fate has become with theirs in just ten months.

_The story of life is quicker than the blink of an eye.  
The story of love is hello and goodbye, until we meet again._

A little trite perhaps, but simple and true -- and ironic. That had been Jimi Hendrix's last lyric couplet, scribbled on a piece of paper and left on his bedside table the night before he'd died. Mark had had a poster of Hendrix with those lines at the bottom hung over his desk in his office. Equally ironic, and prophetic, but Mark would've been the first to say life had to be lived in the now, not the past or future. Bella had been the one to worry over bills already due and loans yet to come while Mark would cup her face and tsk-tsk, saying, "The past is over, baby, and the future -- it never arrives. Let's eat ice-cream." That had been his solution to all life's tough problems: let's eat ice-cream. Since his death, Bella has tried to mellow-out more, live her life one day at a time and enjoy what's in front of her, and who -- not worry so much about tomorrow.

Just now, however, she is thinking about the immediate future and a seven-hour plane trip across three time zones. It's the first time she's made it alone and she'll be exhausted by the end. She had to put in her catheter this morning because even if she drank and ate nothing from midnight on, she still can't hold it _that_ long, and it's just not possible for a paraplegic to use one of those little plane restrooms. At least her tickets are first class. Rosalie and Emmett insisted. "It's absurd for you to ride in cramped coach when we can afford to upgrade you for a little more." 'A little' being over five-hundred dollars, but for a seven-hour, non-stop flight -- each way -- she isn't complaining. They insisted on non-stop, too, so she won't have to hassle with plane changes in busy hub airports like Chicago. "We're not leaving you to the tender mercies of airport personnel."

Now, her baggage stored, Emmett comes around to lift her from the chair and settle her into the passenger seat. He likes doing these things for her, and she allows it because he does them from affection, not pity. Emmett lives for being asked to fetch items from a top shelf or open stubborn jars or lift heavy objects. He has the soul of a servant in the body of a linebacker, and now she kisses him goodbye on the cheek. "I'll see you in a week," she says. "Tell Rose not to scare our clients too much."

He laughs and double-slaps the roof as if it were a yellow taxi instead of a yellow sports car, and Jasper pulls away. The last time Bella was in a car with him driving, it was Carlisle's Mercedes and they'd been headed for Phoenix. After riding with Edward, Rose, Alice and even Emmett, Jasper's driving is more akin to Esme's, almost sedate. They have plenty of time, and Jasper isn't hurrying just to burn gas. It's a lovely Indian-summer day and the sun is warm on her where it falls in the window, although as it's morning, most of it is on Jasper's side as they drive southwest. It throws sparkles off his hands and arm and cheek. She finds herself curious suddenly. "Were you always fair, being blond? Rose said she was."

He grins. "I don't rightly remember. I do recall being outside a lot, so I assume I had a suntan."

"And your eyes? What color were they before?"

"Maria -- my maker -- tells me they were brown."

"Light brown or dark brown?"

"I have no idea! Probably not as dark as yours. You've got cow eyes."

"_Cow_ eyes? I have _cow eyes_? Are you calling me a _cow_?" But she's laughing. This banter is much like what they share through the computer screen.

"Cow eyes are a compliment."

"I _hope_ you don't try a line like that on Alice!"

"Have you ever seen a cow's eyes, Bella? They're big and dark and placid. Very beautiful. Like doe eyes."

"Doe eyes sounds better than cow eyes. And if you're not careful, I'll call yours butter eyes -- rich and fattening."

His laugh is even louder this time. "Fine, cow-eyes."

"So be it, butter-eyes."

The teasing breaks the tension she hadn't quite realized was there until it lifts, and the rest of the drive to Atlanta's Hartsfield Airport passes much the same in easy conversation and jests. Bella loves talking to Jasper because he's a walking historical Rolodex. Even before he joined the Cullens -- a time he is surprisingly close-lipped about -- he read regularly, then listened to the radio, or later, the television. He throws out references right and left to things he's seen and the sheer _range_ of his knowledge makes him seem very much the "Grand Old Man" he pretends to be in academia. She's a bit in awe of him. Of all the Cullens next to Carlisle, he still makes her feel young, but his manner is more the mentor than a father. "You're a natural teacher, you know it?" she tells him as they turn off I-285 onto the airport exit. "I'd have loved to take a class with you. You make it all _interesting_ -- whatever you're talking about."

He grins. "Thank you. Maybe I'll forge a degree so I can teach again at one of the local private colleges. I like teaching; I miss it. Now which airline did Rose book you on? Alice didn't say."

"Delta."

They pay attention then to getting parked and into the main terminal south, and Bella begins to understand why Jasper is the one accompanying her. Rose elicits attention, Emmett elicits alarm, and Edward elicits stares, but Jasper -- Jasper absolutely _commands_ respect. It's more than his height and good looks, or his vampire magnetism, and he doesn't speak loudly or rudely. He doesn't need to. People listen. She can tell he isn't happy being in the crowded airport, but he doesn't look strained either, and gets her and her bags checked in record time. Traffic was relatively light for Atlanta, so they're here almost three hours early. Even with security to face, she has time to kill and she'd rather spend it with Jasper than wait, bored, at the gate.

They find a comfortable place for her in the terminal atrium in the shadow of the dinosaur from the Fernbank Museum, then Jasper heads off to find her coffee while she watches children drag their distracted parents over to the towering Jurassic replica rising behind her. He returns not only with coffee in a white-and-red Seattle's Best paper cup, but with a bag of sandwiches, which he tucks in her chair bag. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I bought three different kinds -- roast beef, turkey, and ham. You shouldn't go without breakfast and lunch both. Edward said if you eat _on_ the flight, you'll be off it before you need to worry about anything coming out the other end." He winks, but Bella is long past being embarrassed by discussion of her bodily necessities. Life as a paraplegic doesn't leave room for it. She is more surprised by how well her vampire friends keep her "human moments" in mind.

"Thanks," she tells Jasper now.

He is looking up at the toothy, black-bone grin hanging above them. "I have . . . no idea what that dinosaur is," he admits, obviously puzzled. "It looks like an Allosaurus -- but not quite."

"You're a fan of dinosaurs?" Bella asks, amused and sipping coffee. It's what she might expect from Jacob and Irene's three rug-rats, not a grown-up vampire.

"Actually, I am." He walks over to the model's base, reads a moment, then returns. "Yangchuanosaurus. Late Jurassic from China -- as the name suggests. Similar to Allosaurus, so I wasn't entirely off base."

"Why is there a Chinese dinosaur here? And I thought it'd be Hard-On-asaurus." There are no children close enough to hear that.

He stares at her a moment, glances back at the dinosaur, then bursts out laughing. "It does look like it! But that's its _pelvis bone_, Bella."

"I'm sure. Still. A pelvis with the bone sticking straight out . . . there?"

"You've spent too much time around Emmett," he says, shaking his head and sitting down on the bench end near her. Despite the crowds, people keep their distance, either because of Jasper or because of her chair. She's used to such reactions by now. Covert and open stares, and curious faces -- or more rarely, irritated ones. Her presence represents a "complication" that some have no patience for. Even years later, she can still recall the words of one woman in a grocery-store line behind her: "There should be special places where people like that have to shop so they don't slow down the rest of us." Bella had been in the chair only two years at that point, and alone that day. Today she'd probably have come back with a quip about 'special places for rude people so they don't annoy the rest of us,' but then, she'd just been horrified and upset, her mind too blasted by self-consciousness to think of anything to say. She's come a long way, she thinks.

"Did they have dinosaurs when you were a boy?" Then she hears what she just asked and laughs. "I mean in _museums_ -- I know you're not that old!"

He laughs too. "Bella, do you know when Darwin sailed?" He lowers his voice. "I was born only seven years after he returned from his first voyage."

"When _were_ you born?" she asks, realizing that she doesn't know.

"1843. I fought in the civil war."

"_Really?_" She is fascinated. "You have to tell me about it."

"I will. Sometime. But _On the Origin of Species_ was published in 1859, and I was turned at 20, in 1863. I didn't hear of 'evolution' until well after. Besides, there wasn't a single museum in Texas when I was a boy. A few wealthy families had cabinets of curiosities, but that was it. Museums were mostly private then; the few public ones were only in the largest cities for the upper and middle classes. I can still remember when they started opening them on Sundays to the lower classes for 'self improvement.'"

Bella is shocked. It's in small things like this that the differences in their world and hers catches her by surprise. "Now they take bored school kids for the afternoon and every town has a historical society." He nods and she adds, "Emmett said what he finds the most different from his childhood to now is the easy access to information."

Jasper nods a second time. "The world is at your fingertips -- literally." He nods to a young girl dressed all in black and plum, sitting a little distance around the atrium circle. She has a laptop open in front of her while she talks on a cell phone and watches CNN on a TV in the distance.

"How strange this world must seem to you -- and to Carlisle even more."

Smiling, he watches the girl a little longer, then looks back. "I have a theory of _vampire_ evolution." He almost whispers it. She leans forward and lifts her eyebrows to invite him to continue. "A hundred years from our turning -- give or take -- is our 'event horizon,' if you will."

"Event horizon?"

"Are you familiar with the theory of black holes?"

"Only vaguely." She's amused. "Science wasn't my best subject."

"Nor mine, but I like to dabble. An event horizon is the point where, as you approach a black hole, you can't escape its gravitational pull. Time gets slower and slower, and when you reach it, time stops. So in theory, one is forever falling into the hole -- yet never reaches it."

"Sounds paradoxical."

"Exactly. The future is a black hole for us all, pulling us in. But for most, the natural lifespan ends before the event horizon is reached -- before the mind can't accept the magnitude of change any more. But for our sort, that doesn't happen. We go on and on, but our _minds_ can't take it. Even after the change, we remain human in some ways. So we reach a point where we . . . freeze. We shut down and stop trying to keep up, withdraw into our own worlds, even while living in this one. I've seen it again and again. It's easier to withdraw."

He pauses and Bella waits, fascinated. "But some of us -- a rare few -- manage to push past that. For them, time doesn't stop, it just ceases to have meaning. Carlisle is like that, and I'm trying to learn." He looks at her and his eyes are _old_. "It's why I stay with them. For Alice, yes, of course -- but because I don't want to become frozen. So I watch him, how he's able to look past the things that mire the rest of us in time, how he sees _through_ to a person's core -- the things that are eternal, not temporal. That's what makes him wise. Not his years, but his ability to see _past_ all those years."

Bella's mind is racing. "Why a century?" she asks.

"That seems the point at which change becomes too fundamental to absorb or ignore. After a century you just have to . . . _let go_ and _be_ in the new time. I don't think the time-frame is fixed and exact, though. Carlisle and I have talked about this before. For him, he thinks it was about a hundred and fifty years, but progress is forever speeding up. For me, it was about a hundred years."

She does rapid math. 1863 to 1963 . . . "The civil rights movement?"

His lips curl. "Exactly."

"The civil rights movement must have messed with your mind if you fought in the civil war."

"It did. And let me add -- I was a _Confederate_ soldier."

"Oh, my."

"Exactly," he says again. "For me in the early '60s, the entire _world_ seemed to be tilting, slowing, stuttering to a stop. I couldn't wrap my mind around it -- quite literally. So in 1963 -- a century from my turning -- Carlisle and Emmett took me on a road trip to Washington, DC. I could barely handle a crowd then, but they forced me to. We were packed among all the sweaty human bodies on a hot August day, listening to a certain speech given from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial."

"'I Have a Dream,'" Bella says, realizing suddenly. "You were _there_?"

"We were there. Time stopped for me that day as I listened to a black man give the most eloquent speech I'd ever heard. I'd hit my event horizon. My mind couldn't accept it. So I . . . let go. And when I did, he wasn't a black man any more. He was just a man with powerful words and an amazing vision. To see _through_ -- it's not easy . . . but it gets easier. Forty-five years later, I -- a Confederate soldier -- voted to put a black man in the white house, and it was easier for me than for anybody else in the family I think, except maybe Carlisle. And Alice, of course; Alice and time are an interesting paradox in themselves. But for me, Obama wasn't _black_. He was just the most qualified candidate running in that election. If he hadn't been, I'd have voted for the other party."

Bella is deeply moved by his willingness to share the experience with her, and she reaches out to grip his cool hand. "Thank you." She thinks about it more. Jasper lets her. Silence never seems to bother him. "Edward was changed in 1918."

"Yes."

"And it's 2017."

"Yes." He's smiling.

"He's hitting it, isn't he? His event horizon?"

"He's been approaching it for the last 10 years, Bella. _You're_ his event horizon. MLK was mine. You're Edward's."

* * *

**Note:** And now you know where the novel's title came from. :-)

A reader reminded me that Bella was 18 at her birthday party in _New Moon_, not 17. So I've had to fudge a little on times. As this story diverges from canon long before the events in _Eclipse_, this Jasper wouldn't have told Bella about his past and I see him as reluctant to do so without cause. The Atlanta airport dinosaur with it's "extra" bone appendage:

givedanadollar-com / images / d-boner1-jpg (replace - with . and close up spaces)

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes:** Bella returns to where it all began ... and learns that Edward left something ten years ago that's been waiting, hidden, ever since.

* * *

There are times Bella is grateful for her father's taciturn placidity. It means an equal lack of problematic questions.

She can discuss the shelter with her mother, and Martha, but must be very, very careful with Charlie because he'd known all the Cullens. Even if there's little reason for him to recall all their names after ten years, Bella's psychological collapse when Edward left has made "Edward Cullen" a dirty word in Charlie's personal vocabulary. So she avoids talking about her new job too much except to ask her father's advice on interacting with the local police, and she can't discuss her academic work either because it makes Charlie's eyes cross. It's not that he's a stupid man, but he's not the academic sort and seems routinely baffled at how he managed to father a daughter who is. He's proud of her, he's just baffled.

Otherwise, this visit is easier because she's not here with Mark -- or her mother -- and Charlie is happy just to have her around. He doesn't require extended conversation. They celebrate her 28th birthday just the way she likes it -- quietly and with little fanfare beyond a some pie and a few presents, like new leather, fingerless gloves to protect her palms against the chair wheels. If not for the chair, she could drift back 10 years. But there is a chair and it complicates things. She can't stay at his house; it's just not possible. With Billy over on a regular basis, much of the ground floor is cleared for a wheelchair but the bedrooms are upstairs, as is the only bathroom. Maybe Billy can go out back, point and shoot at the bushes, but Bella must wear her catheter here and sleep at a local motel that has a room with full handicapped access. This is also why, after the accident, she had to move in with Renee. Renee and Phil own a Florida ranch with four bedrooms, no stairs and a lot of open space, whereas Charlie's entire house would've had to have been gutted and rebuilt for her. He just couldn't afford to do that. Even so, it was _his_ insurance that had paid for her hospital and rehab and Bella is cognizant of just how much she owes her father with his steady job and such unflashy necessities as good health benefits. When he descends into apologetics, she reminds him of that.

Every evening after Charlie drives her back to the motel, she calls Edward. Once, she got his voicemail, but otherwise, he's finagled his breaks to coincide with her calls. They text during the day, and she calls him every evening. He's working for the entire week she's gone, which she asks him about. "Well there's not a lot else for me to do."

"You could spend a day just hanging out, playing piano, or even doing clinic work at the shelter."

"Bella, there are only two families there right now and they don't need anything. Or at least, they don't need anything from me. Rose said one of the women specifically asked if she could see a woman doctor, not a man."

"That sometimes happens. A lot of them have suffered violence from men, so having a male doctor is sometimes more than they can handle."

"I'm not complaining. I understand. I'm just pointing out why they don't need me this week. How did the visit go today?"

"Mostly good," she answers, then he listens to her moan about trying to handle a wheelchair in the Forks' rain. Charlie had wanted to take her down to the station to see people, then they'd spent the day dropping into various shops, including Newton's Outfitters. Mike Newton works in Denver these days at a ski resort, but his parents are still in town. "I know he's showing me off, and normally, I wouldn't mind, but I don't like pushing through puddles. At least everybody is already aware of what happened to Mark and didn't ask about him. I never thought I'd be glad of small-town grapevines before."

"The rain on the chair might also finish washing off any stink of my kind."

"Oh, don't worry, I wiped it down with that ammonia-mix the first night I was here like you told me to, then asked Charlie to use his washing machine the next day. I think he was a little confused but agreed of course. I even washed my sneakers."

"When will you see Jacob and his family?"

"Not till tomorrow. We're going out to Billy's place. Jacob, Irene and the girls got in tonight, but they need to get some sleep. The oldest is only six, and all day in a car from Idaho is a long trip."

"Well, see if you can manage to meet Jacob outside initially. It may not be possible, but if you're already in a room and he enters, he's more likely to pick up on any lingering scent than if you both go into the room at the same time. Our olfactory sense adjusts fairly quickly and we stop noticing a smell."

She isn't sure whether she's worried by this or not. On the one hand, she feels guilty for hiding Edward, Rose and the others from Jacob. She's a big girl now and can pick her own friends. But on the other hand, she doesn't feel like fighting Jacob about it. She distracts herself by asking him, "Is that how you learned to get used to me? Your nose adjusted?"

"Oh -- um, you're a bit of a special case for me, Bella, but the dulling works in the hospital certainly. There's always a little blood smell in the air so if I can take a minute when I first walk in, I can ignore it easier later even if faced by a lot of it."

She finds this interesting and is glad he doesn't mind explaining it to her. Yet even ten years ago, once she'd figured out what he was, he'd been frank about life as a vampire. There's a rather long pause, then he asks, "Is there a way you could get Charlie to carry you up to your old room, then be alone there for a while?"

"Yeeees," she says cautiously. "You're not going to fly out here just to sneak in my bedroom window, are you?"

He snorts. "No! That would be a bit extreme even for nostalgia's sake!"

"Well, you and 'extreme' aren't exactly strangers. If there's a category in the Vampire Olympics for Extreme Expressions, you'd win it."

He breaks into hysterical laughter probably driven by embarrassment. "I'm not _that_ bad! Trust me, I'm nowhere near a gold-medalist in vampire extreme." She can hear him take a deep breath, then he says, "Anyway, I left something there for you. It might be a little difficult for you to get to, as you'll need to get down on your old bedroom floor to reach it."

She's baffled. "You came all the way out here just to leave something in my old room? And you say you're _not_ a gold-medal winner in vampire extreme?"

"No! I left it back before we moved ten years ago. I knew it was wrong, since I'd promised you peace without reminders -- stupid and childish. But I wanted to leave something of myself with you. So that CD I made for you for you birthday, and the pictures of me that you took -- even the old plane tickets . . . they're all under your bedroom floorboards. There's a loose one and -- "

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" She bursts out laughing. "That is . . . possibly the most melodramatic thing you've admitted to yet!"

The sound he makes isn't a laugh so much as half groan and half embarrassed _chortle_. "I said I knew it was stupid and childish."

"Yes, it was!" She's still laughing. "But thank you for telling me. I'd like to have them back and I'll see if I can get Charlie to carry me up there. I'm a little worried about it straining his back though, so maybe I'll get Jacob to do it."

"Jacob!" He sounds alarmed. "You'll have to be careful -- "

"Of course I will. But it'd be easier for him."

They talk a little longer, then hang up and she gets ready for bed. She reads a while, then turns off the light and tries to sleep. Yet she finds herself going back to what Edward had admitted and realizes it's been 10 years since she's heard the lullaby he wrote for her. He's not played it since they re-met, or at least, not where she could hear although she's heard him play on several occasions. The fact he hasn't played the lullaby isn't something she'd given much thought to -- and she suddenly wishes she had that CD _right now_ so she could hear it again.

In fact, trying unsuccessfully to recall the tune is keeping her turning in bed for more than an hour after the light's off. She keeps thinking she'll fall asleep but doesn't. Her mind goes round and round, circling back to the song -- and Edward. This troubles her. She doesn't want her mind to circle back to Edward. She's finally forgiven him. And she's gotten used to having him back in her life. She doesn't mind it, even enjoys their banter. He's not who she remembers, but then, she's not who she remembers either. It surprises her that they haven't grown apart more after almost a decade of living apart, and she tries to remember if their interaction had been this easy before. She doesn't think so. It had been too new -- thrilling but frightening. And he'd been too nervous, both of hurting her and being hurt by her, even as she'd felt unworthy and confused by his attention.

No, their interaction then was never as easy as it's become now. She also thinks about how often she's called or texted him -- not just on this vacation but for the past few _months_. They should set up a calling plan to save them both some money. It's ridiculous. But the thought of _not_ hearing his voice at least once a day, even if she can't see him, isn't bearable. She lost Mark. She can't lose Edward, and she worries if that's not just ridiculous, but _unhealthy_. She worries if it means what she thinks it does.

She's not ready to fall in love again -- even with a boy she'd been in love with once before.

Yet that damn lullaby -- elusive and recalled badly -- is still darting around in her head, driving her crazy and she has to put a stop to it or she'll never sleep. Then she'll be grumpy all day tomorrow at Billy Black's party.

Lifting herself on an elbow, she leans over to turn on the bedside lamp again, grabbing her phone where she'd left it. She keeps it near at night in case of an emergency. Flopping back on the pillow and blowing hair out of her face, she hits Edward's number on speed dial. It rings and rings but he doesn't answer. Of course he's busy. He talked to her earlier, why would he expect her to call him again in the middle of the night? He's no doubt working; she knows he prefers night rotations when possible. She doesn't leave a message, just shuts the phone and turns out the light, trying to sleep again.

She's practically there when her phone suddenly goes off. Who the hell put the William Tell Overture on her ringer? Oh, yes, _she_ had, because she can't hear it beeping or ringing at the bottom of her chair bag, and refuses to pay for ringtones. She grabs for the phone in the dark -- almost knocking it off the night stand and _that_ would be a pain in the ass. "Hello?" she says when she gets it open.

"Bella? Bella, are you all right? Nothing happened?" It's Edward.

"What?" She runs a hand over her face, trying to wake all the way up. "No, I'm fine."

"You called me at 4:33 in the morning!"

"Oh, sorry, yeah, it was only 1:30ish here."

"Oh -- right." She can almost hear him smack himself in the head. She's glad she's not the only one who forgets time zones and he must have been too worried when he'd seen her caller ID to stop and think. His concern is sweet in a goofy sort of way. "Did you need something?"

"Actually -- yeah. This'll probably sound silly, but ever since you mentioned that CD, I've been trying to remember the lullaby but I can't quite get it right. Can you, ah . . . sing some of it? Just hum it?"

There is dead silence on the other end of the phone, and she hopes she hasn't hurt his feelings by admitting she can't remember how her song went. But before she can apologize, he asks, "You want to hear your song? Really?"

"Of course really" -- then to mollify possibly injured pride, adds, "I remembered how it went for a long time, but human memories aren't like yours."

"No, no, I understand. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd put it out of your mind altogether."

"No, it just eventually faded. And _I'm_ surprised you haven't played it for me again."

He laughs a little. "I didn't think you'd want to hear it."

"I'm not sure I would have at first, but . . . well, you wrote me a _song_. How many people get to have their very own song?" She hopes he can hear in her voice how special she thinks that.

He doesn't answer directly. There's a pause, then she can hear him sing the tune, making distinct "La, la, las," for the notes instead of just humming. She settles down more snugly in the bed, burrowing further under the covers and holding the phone to her ear, just listening. He sings through the main melody twice, then stops and asks, "Is that all right?"

"One more time?"

"Okay." He sings it again.

"Thank you," she says. "That's perfect. I think I can go to sleep now."

"Good night then, Bella." She can almost hear the smile in his voice. "Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Edward."

* * *

It took a while to finish this one because I had to write parts 31 and 32 together. They're a continuation of the same thread. I hope to post part 32 later this week.

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes:** Bella returns to where it all began ... and learns that Edward left something ten years ago that's been waiting, hidden, ever since.

* * *

Bella sleeps in, as Charlie won't be by to fetch her till noon. When she finally wakes, she sees there's a text message waiting on her phone. Edward of course: **EMSG**.

He's sent her email _already_? When did he get off work? Of course, he's three hours ahead of her too, so she climbs out of bed into her chair and opens her laptop even before hitting the bathroom to empty the catheter. The computer is ready by the time she gets back and she finds a _huge_ file attachment waiting -- an MP3 file.

_No,_ he surely didn't . . .. She opens it.

Yes, he surely did. The email says: _This is probably preferable to my singing, just in case you can't get to the CD. Happy Belated Birthday. -- E._

While she showers, she lets it download (the motel wireless connection isn't that great -- or fast), then opens her player. Strains of her lullaby fill the motel room, made tinny and lacking reverb on her laptop speakers. Had he got off work then driven back to Helen to his precious Bösendorfer just to record this for her? She wouldn't be surprised. Perhaps he'd already had a recorded copy, but it would be just like Edward to go to all that trouble. Whatever he'd said last night, he _is_ the king of extreme.

She'd forgotten just how pretty the song is -- simple, not busy, a little languid and soft. It's a lullaby, after all, not an opus. She listens to it over and over, letting it calm her before Charlie arrives at her door. She can do this today. Whatever comes with Jake, she'll be fine. After all, this is her fifth day here and she cleaned everything just as Edward instructed. How much scent can possibly be left?

Apparently none. She doesn't even have to finagle being outside to meet Jacob and Irene because _everybody_ is outside milling on Billy Black's lawn. It's one of Fork's rare sunny days and this "little get-together" has turned into a reservation party; she thinks every Quileute must be here plus a few honorary members like her and her dad. She's overwhelmed in less than a minute by two small girls and their over-excited puppy of a father. "Bells! Look at you!" He engulfs her in a hug, lifting her in his huge grip much like Emmett -- except Jacob is even bigger than Emmett these days.

"Put me down!" she scolds, but she's laughing almost too hard to get it out.

"Can't," he tells her. "Your chair's been hijacked." He nods over her shoulder and turns so she can see. Both Jenny and Beverley have piled in and are trying to move it using one arm each. Their coordination is none too good.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Irene is saying, trying to wrest them out of it. "Let Aunt Bella have her seat back, you two."

"It's okay," Bella says, grinning at them.

But Irene has grabbed one girl in each arm and lifts them out. Like Jake, Irene is not small, by any definition. She's almost six feet and big all over. "My frybread figure," she says. But she matches Jake -- or at least isn't dwarfed by him -- and Bella thinks the girls are going to be titans even without the werewolf DNA.

In any case, the temporary squatters are out of her chair and Jake settles her back into it. He says nothing at all about any suspicious scents.

The day is warm for September in Washington, and lovely. Sunshine streaks through the giant firs and pine and everything is green, the air full of noise and laughter, whoops and running children. Bella even holds Jake and Irene's third and youngest, only fourteen months old, and finds it's not as scary as she remembers after Jenny was born. Maybe she could get used to this baby thing after all. She's almost forgotten what it feels like to be part of such a big, extended family. Even Mark's passel of aunts, uncles and cousins has nothing on the Quileute, and if the Cullens are large for a coven, otherwise, they're cut off. There are no elders, and no pitter-patter of little feet complete with squeals and shouting. And there never will be. That's sad. For the first time, Bella thinks she finally _gets it_ -- why Rose, Emmett and Esme stare with longing at children in the shelter or out with their parents in stores, and why Jasper pretends to be an elderly academic, or Alice keeps pictures she found on Facebook of her great-great-great nieces and nephews. Bella even understands finally why they pretend to be a family. _This_ is what they miss. This is why they value her humanness. She was young once. And she will get old.

And that's not a tragedy. The tragedy is that they _can't_.

So she holds little Leah closer and lets tiny fists grab and tug her hair. "Grow up and have lots of babies with somebody you love," she whispers to her. "Get old and fat and happy and make cookies for your grandchildren."

It is the best blessing she can think of. Leah just laughs and tugs harder, as if in agreement.

Irene has been watching her with those odd, knowing eyes. Unlike Jake, her mother is half white and it shows in hair that's dark brown rather than black, and irises that appear almost yellow, like the Cullens'. For a moment, she looks as if she might say something but is prevented by the appearance of baby Leah's namesake. "Hi, Bella," big Leah says, offering a hand.

Bella shakes it. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good." Leah smiles and takes an empty seat a little behind Irene and Bella, pulling it up between them. She's not so angry these days, more sad, and doesn't live on the reservation anymore. Like Jake and a few others, she moved away, but went only as far as Seattle. She never imprinted, and never married. She attended the University of Washington and works now as a CPA, which Jake thinks a strange profession for an Indian but Leah argues true tribal sovereignty requires sound financial management. She was elected to the office of Tribal Comptroller recently, replacing Jim Ateara (Quil's uncle) -- much to his annoyance -- in a close-fought run-off, so the Atearas and Clearwaters don't talk much these days, even if Quil himself breaks family ranks to remain friends with Seth. Bella is glad she can pretend to be stupid about tribal politics.

"I was sorry to hear about Mark," Leah says now, taking Bella by surprise at this direct offer of condolences. The rest have mostly skirted the issue, but Leah always was frank. "I liked him."

"Thanks," Bella replies.

"How are you? Really?"

"I'm a lot better," she says. "I'm adjusting. It's slow, but I'm adjusting."

"Irene said you're running a women's shelter out in north Georgia?"

"Yeah. I probably won't continue it, but it's an income while I finish the dissertation."

"I am so fucking glad I could take a non-thesis option for my masters," Leah admits, popping the top of a Pepsi.

"Why?" Irene asks. "You write beautifully. You always did."

"Have you ever _read_ a financial document, Reenie? It's not exactly slam poetry. I'd rather have somebody wax my privates than write a thesis for a finance degree."

"Ow! Shit, woman!" Irene is laughing. So is Bella. Trust Leah to come up with something outrageous.

"Just being honest here," Leah replies, sipping from her can, then she sits it aside to hold out her arms for the baby. "My turn." Bella passes her over. "Hey, Pipsqueak," big Leah tells little Leah who, recognizing a familiar voice, lays her head on Leah's breast and closes her eyes, sucking hard on her binky, clearly headed for slumberland. Leah's hands on her are practiced and gentle.

Despite sleeping in that morning, tiredness eventually catches up with Bella around nine. As Seth, Embry, Jared and Paul call for a bonfire, she confesses to Charlie, "I'm ready to hit the hay, Dad."

He nods and starts to rise but Jake beats him to his feet. "Nah -- you stay here and get another beer. Irene and me'll drive Bella back. The kids are all asleep in the house."

Charlie grins. "Thanks, son."

Jake takes Bella to their big old whale of a Chrysler Cordoba that he restored while Irene finds Leah to ask her to keep an eye on the girls, then joins them. Bella fears she knows what's coming next and, indeed, they start questioning her -- gently -- as soon as Jake has the car backed out from the informal parking lot of vehicles lining Billy's street. "How are you?" Irene asks. "I mean really? Beyond what you told Leah?"

"I really am okay," she says, a little irritated, but also touched. They're good people and consider her theirs. They look out for her and always have, none too differently than Mark's older sisters. Bella never had a sibling but Jake may as well be her brother, and Irene her sister-in-law.

"You haven't been calling as much," Irene says. It's concerned, not a reprimand and Bella knows she's right. She hasn't been calling as much; she fears letting something slip accidentally.

"I've just been really swamped," she half-lies. "At first, yeah, I admit I was depressed -- but I really am getting better."

"You look good," Jacob says, although he's watching the road, not her. "Charlie said you looked horrible at the funeral."

"Well, what would you _expect_, doofus?" Irene scolds, swatting him upside the head even as Bella points out, "That was almost a year ago."

They ask a few more questions about the shelter, but focus on her mental state and she's glad of that because she can answer honestly without needing to dissemble. "I'm not looking forward to next month, no," she says. "But in another way, I think I am. Just to get past the first year anniversary, you know? Put it behind me. I won't miss him less, but that hurdle ... yeah. I'm not looking forward to it, but maybe I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill."

"You won't know how you'll feel till you get there," Irene says with her usual common-sense wisdom. "Then you just need to let it be, whatever it is."

They've reached the motel; it wasn't a long drive. Jacob and Irene follow her all the way to her motel door to be sure she gets safely inside. Unlocking the door, she turns to say goodbye --

-- only to have Jacob _leap_ past her into the room where he crouches, snarling, his head whipping around wildly, shouting to Irene, "Get her back to the car! I'll take care of this!"

"What the hell?" Irene asks, face scared as she grabs Bella's chair to try to hurry her away.

Bella throws on her brakes so Irene can't move her and mutters, "Shit." It must be the damn suitcase. She washed and cleaned everything else, but the suitcase has a fabric cover and it's been shut up in the room all day, the scent building -- just as Edward had warned. Yet after all afternoon and evening with Jacob and no hint of a problem, she just didn't think about it when they were bringing her home.

"There's no vampire here," she says calmly.

Jacob whips his head around. "Get to the car! I can _smell_ them and that bitch of a leech is still out there!"

"Victoria," Bella continues in the same calm voice, "has been dead almost nine years. You smell vampires right now because their scent is caught in my suitcase. But there are no vampires here."

Irene is staring at her and so is Jacob. He relaxes slowly -- very slowly -- then picks his way over to take a good whiff of her luggage and his face scrunches up in non-verbal commentary. "What the hell?" Irene asks even as Jacob turns to look back at her, his dark face made darker by suffused blood.

"I'm living with Rose and Emmett," Bella explains, forcing her voice to stay level and hiding her shaking hands by gripping her chair wheels. "That's probably who you're smelling, Jake. Or maybe Jasper. He drove me to the airport."

"Explain!" Jacob barks. "Who are Rose, Emmett and Jasper? Oh, wait, aren't they . . . isn't Rose the woman you're opening that shelter with . . ." He trails off as the implications hit. "She's a fucking _leech_?!"

"_Vampire_, Jacob," Bella snaps. "Do I call you and Reenie redskins? Jesus!"

At least Jacob has manners enough to wince at her rebuke and Bella might worry what her motel neighbors are thinking, except she has none at present. In fact, she might be the only guest in the entire motel. The Olympic peninsula draws tourism, but most are hikers who prefer tents to the Motel Six, and mid-September is well past the height of the season anyway. "Come in," she says now. "Let's not have this conversation half on the porch with the door wide open."

Irene follows her in and shuts the door. "Sit," Bella invites.

Irene takes a spot on the end of the room's big bed, and pats the cheap spread beside her. After a tense minute, Jacob sits down. "Explain," he asks again -- or orders, really.

"Rosalie Hale, Emmett McCarty and Jasper Whitlock are helping me with the shelter," Bella says. "In fact the shelter was Rose's idea from the start. She was dying in a Rochester alley in 1933, the victim of gang rape. She was found and turned. Now, she's a lawyer specializing in domestic violence and legal advocacy for women. She's got money -- investments down the years -- and she's sunk a whole hell of a lot of it into offering a hand up to others in need. Hardly 'leeching,' wouldn't you agree?"

The steel in her own voice surprises Bella, but Rose is her _friend_ and she's not going to tolerate Jacob bad-mouthing her, 'natural' enemy or not.

"She's still a damn vampire," Jake says. "She's eats people."

"No, actually, she prefers wolves" -- Bella raises eyebrows at the situational humor -- "but she'll take coyote or deer, if that's all she can find."

He blinks; so does Irene. "She's like those others? The damn Cullens?"

"She _is_ one of the Cullens, Jake. It was Carlisle Cullen who found and saved her, and she's never tasted human blood. Ever. But the Cullen clan doesn't exist quite like it did, and they no longer all use the name. Carlisle is in Afghanistan working for Doctors Without Borders, Alice and Jasper were living in Minnesota until recently, Rose and Emmett were in Nashville, while Esme -- and Edward -- were in Helen."

Irene appears intrigued, but Jake's face has darkened again and he spits, "_Edward Cullen!_ Don't tell me you're seeing that _jackass_ again after what he did -- "

"It's not what you think," Bella cuts him off. "I'm hardly dating him. I still miss my _husband_, Jacob. But you're somewhat to blame for the whole situation, you know."

"_I'm_ to blame?" Jake stands abruptly, towering over her and Irene.

"Yes," Bella tells him. "Now sit and let me finish explaining." Jacob resists, but Irene yanks him back down beside her. Even so, her face is hard as she looks at Bella. She _is_ a wolf woman after all, and what she knows of vampires is only what Jacob has told her, and a little from Bella herself back when Bella had no reason to be generous.

"You didn't tell Mark the truth," Bella says to Jacob now, "when he asked what you are, and what Edward is."

"Of course not! I'm not allowed to! I couldn't even tell you -- you had to guess. It's a tribal secret."

"Be that as it may, you could at least have told me Mark was _asking_, instead of leading him to believe I was crazy."

"What _did_ you tell Mark?" Irene asks her husband, voice sharp.

"Nothing! Well, he called to ask about Bella's story about Edward, but I _couldn't_ confirm it. You know that. So I just told him Bella could be a little fanciful."

"Ass," Irene says even as Bella makes a 'There you go' gesture with one hand.

"So," Bella continues, "the upshot is that Edward showed up himself, because he didn't want Mark to think I was delusional. Mark punched him in the jaw."

Irene snorts as Jacob pumps the air. "Kick ass, brother!"

"Well, he almost broke his hand, so it wasn't that awesome," Bella points out. "After, they talked. And eventually, they became friends."

"_What?_" Jacob and Irene ask at the same time like stereo -- bass and alto.

So Bella relates the whole story. It takes so long that Billy calls Jake's cell phone in the middle and Jake explains they're visiting. It's closing on eleven before Bella is done. Then they just sit and _look_ at each other for nearly a full minute.

Finally, Jake opens his mouth. "Bells, I'm not sure you can really trust them. They're vampires."

"Oh, please -- would you cut that out? They've always kept their word to your tribe."

"They're still vampires."

"And I'm white! My ancestors stole your land!"

"We know you."

"Exactly. And you know them. They've proved you can trust them, so stop being bigoted and stupid. If _I_ can forgive them, then you can."

Jacob is still looking stubborn and dubious, but Irene tells him, "She has a point, you know."

He sighs. "Bella, I just worry. We love you. And I remember how shook up you were after The Jerk left. I can't stand the idea of him doing that to you again, especially not right after Mark died."

And finally, he's being honest. He's worried, and maybe afraid that Edward has caught her when she's at a vulnerable place in her life emotionally. She's not even sure he's not right to wonder, but leaning over, she reaches for his hand and he gives it to her. She squeezes it. "Jake, I wear big-girl panties now. I'm hardly the lovesick, insecure little girl I was then. And Edward _Masen_ is different from Edward Cullen. He's grown up too. You might even like him."

"I doubt that." Jake snorts. "You tell him, if he makes you shed so much as a single tear, I'm flying out there to bite his marble ass."

Bella chuckles. "You might have to stand in line behind his family -- starting with Rose."

"Hmph," Jake says. "Maybe I could like this Rose."

Bella grins and squeezes his hand again. "You probably would." Then she releases him. "Now listen, I need a favor since you two know the truth. Edward left something behind in my bedroom ten years ago, but it's not exactly easy for me to get upstairs these days . . . "

* * *

**Notes:** I must thank Minisinoo for helping me with the first half of this chapter. Living in Anchorage, I do have some Alaskan native students, but I don't pretend to know much about Native American life, so Min kindly read over this, corrected things, made some suggestions (like Jake's car) ... and basically wrote half the paragraph about Leah's job! This chapter would have been a lot less authentic without her help.

While I've mostly ignored the bogus biology from _Breaking Dawn_ (Bella will NOT be getting pregnant by Edward), I did find the idea that Leah is infertile to be both plausible and sad, so I kept it. And anybody raised in the country knows how fast a "family" get-together acquires additions -- neighbors "Just comin' by to be polite-like and say howdy," but of course, you have to invite them to stay and have a beer. :-D

**PLEASE NOTE! There may be as much as a 2-3 delay before posting the next chapters, so don't look for anything until _mid-February_. Next week is my first round of student speech papers.** I know readers have got used to about a chapter a week, so that's why I'm warning. "Please update soon" won't make me grade (or write) faster. Hee. But I appreciate that readers are eager for the next chapter. Trust me, NONE of you are as eager to read it as I am to write it ... because Bella will be coming home to Edward.

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. **


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes:** Bella comes home to Edward. There might be, you know, just a little romance in this. If you squint. Baby steps.

* * *

He is free for the next 60 hours, roughly three days and two nights. Of course he has pre-paid for that freedom with long hours last week, but exhaustion isn't a weakness to which he succumbs, and work distracted him from missing Bella. The missing had been worse that he'd expected. There have been whole, long _months_ in a row in the past when he hadn't seen her even at a distance, but now . . .

Now, he's spoilt. It's that simple, and even talking to her every day wasn't enough.

He's bouncing a little on the balls of his feet where he waits beyond airport security. Her plane isn't due for twenty more minutes but he's early, just in case. Sometimes the air stream from west to east speeds up planes, he knows. There's a stereotypical 'little old lady' with blue hair sitting in a hard orange airport seat ten feet away, watching him with amusement. She's already surmised that he's waiting for his girl, and he almost wishes she'd just ask so he can deny it -- except of course he'd be lying. He just hates it when other people can read him as easily as he reads them. She thinks he's 'adorable.' She doesn't realize she's young enough to be his _daughter_.

Then again, Bella could be his great-great-granddaughter. He should probably be disturbed by that. Sometimes he is; loving Bella goes a little beyond robbing the cradle. Yet everybody he knew in his human life is ashes to ashes and dust to dust by now, and Bella . . . Bella leads him _forward_, grounds him in this brave new world in which he has to live. Loving her has broken and re-cast him into her match, and he's less overwhelmed by life when he's in her company. New wine can fill old wineskins, it seems.

He's still bouncing and makes himself stop. Overeagerness is embarrassing at his age, but patience has never been his best virtue.

His eyes flick back to the "Arrivals" board and he notices that her flight has gone from "on time" to "arrived." He was right; it's fourteen minutes early. They still have to reach the gate and deplane of course, and she'll be among the last off, but soon, soon, soon . . .

Anticipation tastes sweet-sharp like venom on his tongue.

Time crawls. It drives him crazy. But at last he can see one of those little airport carts in the distance, yellow light blinking on the back as it weaves its way through pedestrian traffic. And that's Bella sitting right in front beside the driver. She's waving to him.

And smiling.

She's smiling to see him and he feels his own face break into a huge grin.

Leaning over a little, she speaks to the driver, who approaches slowly and stops to collect him. He should probably have waited at the baggage carousels to meet her -- not take up a seat as a fully ambulatory person -- but he's been waiting six days and wanted, _needed_ to see her as soon as possible. Now, she inches over a little to make room beside her and he climbs up. She hugs him hello, her familiar, beloved scent curling around him: floral shampoo and a touch of musky perfume (she put on perfume?), as well as the mouth-watering call of her blood. He freezes for an instant. It's been a week. But the bloodlust passes quickly and he can focus on the wonderful feel of her arms around his neck and her warm skin. "Missed you," she says.

"And I, you," he replies. He knows he's smiling like a loon.

He's also aware the blue-haired old lady behind them is clucking to herself as she reads her magazine, pretending not to watch while watching. _They're so cute,_ she thinks. _And she must be handicapped, poor dear. But look at his face; he's positively glowing._

He'd resent it, except he's just too damn happy.

Once he's settled, the driver hits the gas and they lurch forward. He and Bella don't say much on the way; the driver is right there and other people occupy the cart in seats behind them. He asks how her flight was, and if she's had a chance to use the restroom. The flight was fine, and no, she hasn't. He slips an arm along the seat rear so it's around her without being _around_ her. She doesn't object. He'd move his hand from the vinyl to cup her shoulder but decides not to push his luck. For a little while, with her soft hair tickling his arm, he'll just dream.

They haven't talked much since she called him in the middle of the night to ask him to sing her her lullaby. She was busy the next day, but did text him from the Black's party to assure him everything was fine. The day after -- yesterday -- he got two texts from her, one saying she'd found the pictures and CD, and the second saying she'd be focused on Charlie as it was her last day, then would hit the sack early to ease her body back into Eastern Time. Today, she's been on a plane all morning and half his afternoon, although she called him from the Seattle airport earlier to say her flight was on time. As he'd known he'd have her all to himself soon, he hadn't smothered her in calls and texts.

Now, the airport cart stops at the elevators down to the luggage carousels and Edward fetches Bella's chair, then lifts her (and her laptop case) down from the seat as the other passengers debark too. They all wait for an elevator, and once they're downstairs, Bella aims for a women's restroom. He waits. He is content. For Bella, he'd wait forever, and sometimes feels as if he has been but knows that's absurd. It's been only eleven months since she lost her husband. Grief is a wound no less than any other. It takes forty days for a broken bone to consolidate, and more yet before it can bear weight. A broken heart is far more fragile.

When she exits, he grins down at her and she smiles back up at him. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Famished."

"Let's get your stuff, then find something for you to eat before heading home."

"Something exotic?" she asks hopefully. "Other than American or German or Italian?" These are the main offerings to be found in Helen, or Dawesonville. Between running the shelter and her own research, she doesn't get to Atlanta that often.

"Whatever you want," he replies, following her as she rolls through the crowd, headed for the baggage carousel bearing luggage from her flight. "My colleagues discuss restaurants. I could take you somewhere they've recommended. Do you have a particular type of exotic in mind?"

"Surprise me. Or -- spicy. I want something a little spicy. But otherwise, surprise me."

"Okay."

Once they're in the car, he heads into downtown on I-85 to the Decatur area that he's become intimately familiar with. Fortunately for him, it's the height of rush hour so by the time they reach the restaurant, it's nearly six o'clock and the shadows are long under the heavy-leafed maples on the western side of the parking lot. Perhaps a 3-foot slice of sunlight is all that bisects tree shade and porch shade. Edward thinks it small enough to manage; nobody is currently in the parking lot anyway. He can get Bella out of the car at a leisurely pace, then dash across the finger of light too fast for human eyes to see even if human eyes were watching. None are. He's used to skirting the edge of the allowed like this; sometimes it's necessary.

"Are you sure?" Bella asks even before he puts the car in park and turns off the engine.

"I'm sure. It's not a problem."

And it's not. He makes his crossing a little out of sight of the front windows, joining Bella on the porch and opening the door for her. This early on a Thursday, there's not much business and the owner himself comes out from behind the rear bar to greet them. "Welcome, welcome!" he says, waving arms and smiling widely. He is chubby and cheerful with a heavy Palestinian accent and the classic Mediterranean olive skin under black, thinning hair offset by a full beard. "Welcome to Nicola's! Have you eaten here before? No? Right this way. Would you like a window seat? Oh, you must have the window seat. It's lovely and romantic." He winks at Edward and Edward can hear his thoughts. Like the old woman's in the airport, they're assumptive but kind. _Such a pretty girl -- such a shame she can't walk. She has lovely dark eyes, deep like the sea, but they're both as pale as the belly of a tuna even at the end of summer. They should get out more._

Nicola is quick to move the unneeded chair from the table for two so Bella can maneuver into a spot across from Edward. Nicola leans in then, lighter out for the little candle, and hands them menus. "Have you had the Lebanese food before? No? Do you want a serious meal or just to nibble? There is the _mezze_" -- he points to an entry on Edward's menu -- "samples of all the appetizers plus _salat_. Good for two if you want to try a little of everything. But if you want less, there are the main plates -- the lamb, the chicken, the shwarma."

Bella is looking a bit overwhelmed and like a good host, Nicola recognizes as much. "I will get you something to drink maybe? Wine? Beer? Rose water? You look over the menu. Please ask if there are any questions."

"Rose water for two would be lovely, thank you," Edward says -- just to get the man to go away, which he does with another wink at Edward. If he were less obviously kind-hearted, Edward would be annoyed.

When he's gone, Edward glances around -- only two other couples dine tonight, both in booths across the room -- then leans over to say, "You pick two things you'd like and we'll ask for two plates so we can share. He can bag whatever you don't eat."

Bella is studying the menu as if it were necessary for an exam. "I've never had Lebanese."

"I understand the shwarma is excellent, along with the baba ganoush as an appetizer and the pistachio baklava for desert. Or that's what my colleagues tell me."

"Edward, I may be hungry but I can't eat _that_ much."

"Like I said, we can have him bag whatever you can't finish."

"He's going to know it's not two people eating" -- which was a valid point. As charming as the owner might be, having him _hovering_ was . . . disconcerting. And inconvenient.

"I can say I ate a late lunch so I wasn't that hungry."

They haggle over logistics a bit more, then order when a waitress returns -- not Nicola. This is his granddaughter. She is in her middle teens. She sets down their rose water and gives Edward a saucy smile, showing cleavage. But she's kind to Bella and answers questions easily in accentless English. When she's gone, Bella says, "You can still charm the wait-staff."

"She wants in my wallet, not my pants," he replies. At Bella's apparent confusion, he clarifies, "She's hoping for a nice tip. She thinks I'm too old for her, actually." Which is new, and maybe Bella is right, that she and Alice have made him look more mature these days.

"Oh," she says, also apparently surprised. He watches her open the bottle of rose water. She's taken off her fingerless gloves and her hands look strong and lean, the nails short and unpainted. They are business hands, not artistic like his. He likes them. She drinks, her lips wrapped around the bottle's mouth and her throat working. He wishes he could be that bottle, shifting in his seat because his pants have become uncomfortably tight. He shouldn't be thinking of her like that. She's just drinking water, not drinking him. The last of the westering sun falls in the window, picking out the red in her dark hair. There is gray there too -- just a little at the crown, an eruption of pale threads against mahogany like fine etching. They tell a story of stress survived and wisdom earned.

"So how _is_ life in Forks these days?" he asks. They didn't talk much in the car on the way here except for his cursing of rush-hour traffic. She'd dozed. And she's been skirting replies since returning home; it makes him nervous. There is something she hasn't told him. He has no idea what it is, so he's fishing.

"Pretty much the same," she says now. Her smile is soft. "That's the charm of small towns -- their stagnation. I used to hate it. Now, I like it. After living in Jacksonville, then Atlanta, I can appreciate the slower pace of a place like Forks. There's something to be said for comfortable predictability in an ever-changing world." She tilts her head, setting down the bottle. "That's the nice thing about vam-, ah, about y'all too."

"We're predictable?" He is amused.

"Yup." She hesitates and he feels his muscles tense, expecting a shoe to drop, but she just twists to fish in her wheelchair pack, drawing out a small photo-package that is yellow with age. She opens this and pulls out three photos -- one of him, one of him and Charlie, and one of her and him. She says nothing, just watches as he picks them up. He remembers them well. After all, he stole and hid them from her. In the first, he looks happy. And he was. It was taken on Bella's birthday before the fiasco at his house. The others were taken later and stake his dead heart -- especially the last showing the two of them. Bella's face is stiff and white and scared while he just looks gutted. Yet she is _standing_ beside him -- standing. That hurts to see and reaching out with a finger, he traces her outline. So pretty, and so _young_. She was just a child and part of him is embarrassed all over again because he feels that he stole her innocence, not just her photographs.

Older Bella is watching him, studying his reactions. "You already had it planned then, didn't you? When Charlie took that picture? You already knew you were leaving."

"Yes." He would like to explain but doesn't. What more is there to say? Bella has already heard it all. But seeing himself in the old photo, he adds, almost choking, "I was dying inside."

She takes the picture from him, studying it a minute, then says in a clinical tone, "I look washed out from the worry."

"I was stiff from the pain."

"Not our best picture."

"No," he agrees.

"Maybe we should ask Alice to take some new ones."

Her words cause his breath to catch and he can't find his voice for a moment. "I'd like that," he says finally. "So would Alice, I suspect."

Her eyebrow hikes. "You won't mind being photographed with an old woman?"

He rolls his eyes as the waitress brings the appetizer. He pushes it subtly towards her, but spoons some of the smooth tan baba ganoush dip onto a triangle of pita bread to put on his little plate for show. After the girl leaves, he asks, "Do you worry that people will think I'm your student?"

"Not really," she says, although she's looking down at her plate, pushing around the pita bread and he thinks she might be fibbing a little.

He plays with his own pita and asks the question he really wants to know. "Does it hurt to see pictures from before the accident? When you could stand?" He winces, hoping his question doesn't anger her, even as he feels strangely vulnerable for the asking.

Smiling faintly, she shakes her head. "Not anymore. Or no more than general frustration. Does it hurt you to see them?"

He hadn't expected her to turn it back on him, and back-peddles. "No, I'm happy with you the way you are. Or, ah -- that sounds like I wanted you to be injured. I mean I don't look at the pictures and regret it." But that phrasing is even worse and he's just digging himself deeper; her eyes are laughing at him. "I _mean_, I love you the way you are." He winces, embarrassed by the blunt confession. None of this is coming out the way he meant it to.

"Edward, stop equivocating." The smile in her eyes has reached her mouth. "I didn't ask if you could accept me like this. I asked if it hurt _you_ to see me the way I was." He doesn't answer, tries not to look her in the eye. "Usually people ask questions that are reflective of themselves and their own concerns," she adds. It's gentle. "It's okay if it hurts you."

He still doesn't answer immediately, just plays with the human food he has no intention of eating. She waits him out. Finally, he says, "Yes." It's strangled. "It makes me . . . furious. At myself -- not you." He's quick to clarify. "I left you. I don't blame you for jumping. I left you."

She shakes her head and sighs, then takes a big bite of the pita. When she's swallowed, she looks up at him. "Edward, I appreciate your willingness to take responsibility for things. It's a virtue too much absent in modern society. _But_ . . . please allow me the dignity of my own mistakes." Her dark eyes are serious and her words catch him by surprise.

"I think this is something we need to get cleared up once and for all," she continues. "We've just skirted it before. I told you about hearing your voice in my head after you left whenever I did dangerous things. It led me to try even more dangerous things to hear it again, but I honestly wasn't trying to hurt myself. It's not _your_ fault I courted danger. That choice was mine, and it's important that I OWN it as such. I learned that later, during rehab. If you take away my responsibility, you also take away my ability to overcome it, you see? I'm just the victim -- not a survivor."

She waits and lets him think about that. After a moment, he nods.

"I don't like being crippled," she continues then. "I don't like it at all. But I won't let it beat me -- or waste time regretting it."

"Disabled," he corrects, wincing at her terms.

"_Crippled_," she insists. "I'm _crippled_. Let's call a spade a spade. There are things I can't do. It's frustrating. And it's okay to be angry sometimes, or sad. I am. I just don't let that own me. You're allowed to be sad too. But don't take away my responsibility for the accident, or you steal my adulthood."

He stares at her. He's had similar scoldings before from Mark, but this is the first time he and Bella have confronted the big pink elephant in the room. "I don't like that you're crippled either," he confesses finally. "It hurts me. But the fact you don't let it stop you makes me respect you more."

She smiles. "It's okay for you to talk to me about it, remember."

"Okay." He frowns at the slowly wilting pita bread saturated by dip on his plate, then watches her eat as he strains the minds of those in the restaurant to see if they have realized he isn't eating. But nobody is paying them that much attention.

After some inward debate, he decides to take her at her word -- that he can talk to her about her injury -- and broaches a subject he's been trying to broach for months. "I'm researching embryonic stem-cells and their potential regeneration properties."

Her eyes flash up from her plate to his face. "Stem-cell research?"

"Yes, stem cells are -- "

"I know what they are, Edward. And I know it's the chief hope for healing SCI." She pauses and he thinks she might be trying to decide how to ask something too, but finally she continues, "I thought you said you didn't go into neurology just because of me?"

"I said you were inspiration. And it's true. You were. Are. If I could find something . . . some way to let you walk again, or at least feel more -- "

"Don't do it just for me!" She sounds . . . almost angry. "There are thousands of people who need a cure."

"I know. But it's _you_ I care about, Bella. That doesn't mean I wouldn't be happy to help others."

She pushes around her pita as their waitress returns with their dinners. The girl starts to take the appetizer, but he says, "Could you box that? I ate lunch late and I'm not so hungry right now, but I might eat it later?"

"Yeah, sure," the girl says, carrying it all away.

Bella picks up her shwarma wrap. "It looks like a gyro," she says before taking a bite. Chewing and swallowing, she adds, "It tastes like a gyro too, more or less. And I assume stem cell research is what you did for the doctorate? I'd wondered since you never said, but I thought maybe it was just over my head."

"Stem cells," he confirms -- or confesses. "And I doubt it's over your head. Well, not in theory."

"Oh, I'm quite sure it's over my head, what you're _actually_ doing, but I'd love to hear about your research. After all, you put up with me going on about communication modalities and feminist theory."

He grins. "I like listening to you." He's playing with his lamb plate, moving the food around so it looks like he's taken a few bites. After years of practice, he's good at faking appearances.

"And I like listening to you," she says. "So talk."

So he does. He tells her everything he's been working on, building on the prior research of McCulloch and Till and everyone who's come after. She eats, first some from her plate, then some from his. He talks all through her dinner, then through Turkish coffee and baklava. She asks lots of questions, and is well-fed and slow-moving by the time they leave. He can hear her heartbeat, slow and easy and content. The sun is long down and it's after eight o'clock. The drive back to Helen will be long, so he fixes the passenger seat in the Audi so she can lie back and nap with a plush blanket tucked in around her. "You're probably ready to be home and in bed," Edward says, more conversationally than in expectation of a reply, but Bella shakes her head.

"Actually, I'm not. I'm tired, but it still feels like late afternoon to me. I want to rest but I'm not sleepy. Let's not go back to Rose and Em's yet. To be honest, I'm not sure I have the energy for Emmett!" She chuckles and so does he. She doesn't even protest as he buckles her in, just smiles up at him and lets him take care of her. At one point, their faces are just inches apart and he pauses to look down at her. Her eyes are wide. "Your breath," she whispers. "It's still divine. Maybe it's to lure your prey, but that doesn't alter the fact."

For just a moment, he considers closing the distance between them and kissing her. But her comment was an observation -- not an invitation. If and when he kisses her again, he wants to be sure it's welcome. So instead, he just smiles and, opening his mouth a little, exhales on her. It's a strange gesture perhaps, but she closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.

"Better than the baklava," she says as he leans away and moves back.

"Where do you want to go, if not home?"

"Take me back to the cabin. It's a lovely night. Let's sit on the back porch and watch the river."

He can't imagine much better right now. "I'd like that."

* * *

**Notes:** Yes, that's a _bit_ of a cliff-hanger. I'm working on the next chapter, which is more of the same almost-romance. And no, she hasn't told him about Jacob and Irene yet. Also, there will be PIANO. :-D

Nicola's is a real restaurant in a quaint white clapboard building on LaVista _just_ west of Briarcliff in the Decatur area of Atlanta. It's been there a long time, serves fantastic food, and Nicola is a wonderful, friendly guy who loves to tell you about Lebanon and how to properly drink the Turkish coffee.___  
_

**Reviews are always welcome and signed reviews are always answered. I can't believe this story has over 700 reviews! Thanks to all of you! **


	34. Chapter 34

**Part Summary:** Edward and Bella spend a quiet autumn evening on the back porch at Esme's cabin. Bella has an epiphany of sorts.

**Notes:** There's some discussion of vampire physiology here. I'm not a biologist, but I did do a little homework. Not all my theories are in this part, but I've given it some thought.

* * *

"Would you like something to eat? Drink?" Edward asks as he opens the door to the cabin and holds it for her to enter. "Esme is working tonight. She'll be sorry she missed you."

Bella doubts that, but doesn't say so. She and Esme have a complicated relationship, although things between them have been better since that confrontation in the shelter's rose garden. Now, Bella says, "I just ate a huge dinner and you're asking me if I'm _hungry_ again?"

He shrugs, expression a tad sheepish. "Well, compared to vampires, humans eat a lot. If I ate three times a day -- never mind snacks -- I'd be too sluggish to lift my head."

Bella grins at the mental image of a sluggish Edward, but feels a spark of curiosity. "If you were able to eat as much as you wanted, not allowing for restraint or available prey, how often do you get hungry?"

He eyes her. "We're hungry all the time, Bella. Or rather, thirsty."

She shakes her head. "I know that. I mean how often do you actually want to eat?"

"Forgive me, but I don't think you do know." Sighing, he plops down in a brown leather tub chair, elbows on the arms and hands clasped before him, adding, "I don't mean that harshly," when Bella winces. "But what you just said tells me that you don't quite understand how it is for us. We talked about it before, back in Forks, but that was a while ago." Polite vampire-speak for, 'I'm sure your human mind has forgotten.'

Tilting her head, Bella rolls a little closer and nods for him to continue. "Then help me understand now."

"In a human," he begins, "hunger pangs signify that the stomach has reached a certain level of emptiness and is ready for more. That's why you can teach yourself to eat less by letting the stomach shrink. Vampire stomachs don't work like that. In fact, our stomachs don't really work at all except to filter the blood we consume to the rest of our bodies. Our internal organs are altered in the Change." He shifts in his seat and Bella watches with great interest. "For us, the thirst is constant -- a burning in the back of the throat exactly like human thirst."

"Even after you've just eaten?"

"If it were an animal, yes. Their blood is never quite enough. The thirst never goes away, but it lessens to a point we can mostly ignore it."

"Like the neuropathic pain from SCI," Bella says. "It never entirely goes away."

Edward nods in agreement. "Precisely. You learn to manage it. We do the same thing -- 'thirst management,' I suppose you could say. If the blood we drink is human, however, it does ease the thirst for a while. It's an incredible relief. But it returns, gradually getting worse until -- if we don't drink -- it sends us mad and we'll attack anything."

"I remember lying in the hospital right after the accident," Bella says. "You'd think, if you're paralyzed, it wouldn't hurt. But it did. There were days when I was either drugged out of my mind, or I couldn't sleep, eat or _think_ because it hurt so much. I'd just lie there and cry."

His eyes are soft and, reaching out, he takes her hand where it rests on her knees, unclenching it to run his thumb over the backs of her fingers. "I should have been there. Regardless of everything, I should have come -- "

"Stop it, Edward. I didn't say that to make you feel guilty." She squeezes his hand, then lets go. "I was just trying to let you know that I . . . understand how it can hurt too much to think straight. You'll do anything to make it stop."

He sighs, but doesn't pursue his guilt. "With a diet of humans," he says instead, "most vampires eat only every other week, or even less. With animals, I can go up to two weeks too, but it's . . . uncomfortable. Working in the hospital, I try to eat at least once a week, and sometimes more."

"If you eat too often . . . ?"

"I get lethargic. Any vampire does."

"All this talk of thirst," she says abruptly, "has made me thirsty. A glass of wine would be nice if you have any?"

"Of course we do."

"White? Reds give me a headache these days, I'm afraid."

"Tannins," he explains, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the kitchen. "Or hystamines. Both have higher concentrations in red wines and give some people headaches." He's back to the doctor now.

"I thought it was sulfates?" Bella replies.

"Common myth. Many white wines actually have more sulfates than reds. My personal bet is on the tannins, but studies are inconclusive." This makes Bella grin. Typical Edward, reading up on things he can't enjoy himself. He's never been one to be caught with his intellectual pants down. "As I recall from your ordering habits, you prefer Pinot grigio or Pinot gris to Chardonnay?" he asks, but it's more rhetorical than a real inquiry. He adds, "Why don't you go out onto the porch and I'll bring you a glass?"

She does, and enjoys the night noises blending with the sound of Edward moving around Esme's kitchen inside. Crickets sing, and there is the clink of a glass and the subtle pop of a cork. After a minute, twinkling, white deck lights go on around her and little paper Chinese lanterns glow in pastel colors. It adds charm rather than steals her night vision. The faint illumination glitters on the dark river water below. Somewhere in the distance, a hoot-owl calls, and tiny waves lap against the bank just beyond the porch in a comforting slap-pause, slap-pause.

While she waits, she collects her thoughts, glad of the few minutes alone. She needs to tell Edward that Jacob and Irene know. Yet however well they took the news, she isn't sure Edward will be happy about it all. She also needs a moment to think about the evening so far.

What is she doing here?

Well, she'd wanted privacy to tell him about Jacob, but honestly, they'd just spent an hour and a half driving up from Atlanta. She could easily have told him on the way; she hadn't needed to come here. She'd _wanted_ to come here. She's not ready yet to say good night to Edward. She's missed him too much -- and isn't sure what she thinks about that . . . if she's _ready_ to have missed him so. She felt half-giddy seeing him waiting for her there at the airport. It's been a while since she's felt giddy like that.

She hears his footsteps behind her and twists her head to look. He's making noise for her human benefit, not sneaking up on her. Setting her wine glass down on the little deck table, he pulls up a chair on her other side. He doesn't say anything, just stares out at the river. She sips her wine and leans her head back. They don't speak. She likes the silence, but he seems tense, and after a moment, blurts, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Startled, she glances over at him. Since when has he been able to read her mind? "Well, sort of." She watches his jaw clench. "It's nothing bad, Edward. I just didn't think it something to bring up at the restaurant. Relax." Reaching over, she grips his hand where it rests atop the chair arm. She'd meant to let go after a brief squeeze like earlier . . . but doesn't. As always, his skin is solid, cool and impervious, like gripping hardwood. Pale maple, perhaps. It's not quite like stone. Wood was once alive, but now is not, and there is still a slight give to his skin -- a memory of life -- that true stone lacks.

He glances over, his brow bisected by a frown line. "Jacob and Irene know y'all are back in my life," she tells him.

Clearly startled, his gold eyes go wide. "I thought you said nothing happened at the party!"

"Nothing did. It was after the party." She relates how they'd taken her back to her hotel where Jacob had smelled vampire on her suitcase, then the discussion that had ensued. All the while, she holds his hand. He lets her. "It's actually Irene who fetched the CD and pictures -- and those old tickets -- from under my floorboards yesterday. She likes the lullaby, by the way, says to tell you you're a very talented pianist."

He is still staring, his hand still gripped in hers. "They're not -- they're not angry?"

"Well, Jacob was at first, but he got over it. More or less. Irene's more relaxed about things." She tilts her head. "It's easier that they know -- that somebody knows, Edward."

"The werewolf pack -- ?"

"-- isn't planning to come out here, if you're worried about that. Jacob explained their traditional job is to protect La Push. They don't chase down vampires who aren't a direct threat. Jacob was worried about me, but I pointed out I'm a big girl now and I'll ask for his help if I need it. But I don't need it. Do I? You're not going to hurt me again."

It's half a statement of conviction, half a challenge. He meets her eyes steadily. "I'm not leaving you again, if that's what you mean." He glances down at their hands, still intertwined. "I think you're safe with me physically too, but you know there's still a danger. There will always be a danger from us. Remember your birthday party?"

"I cut my finger the other day slicing an apple," Bella says. "Before I left on vacation I mean. Emmett just helped me put a Band-Aid on it. I trust y'all."

"Emmett and Rose are exceptionally well controlled. If that had been Jasper . . . "

"I wouldn't have been handling a knife around Jasper. And I don't think he'd have let me. I take normal precautions. I don't even get close to Jasper when I'm having my period. It's cruel to him as much as it's dangerous for me."

Edward's lips pinch in embarrassment and he abruptly releases her hand. It's funny how he'll talk to her about her catheter but not her tampons -- his circumspect upbringing, no doubt. Hadn't they said things like "in the family way" back then too, just to avoid the word "pregnant"? It's funny to think that "pregnant" had once been considered too crass for polite company.

"Edward," she says to get him to look over at her. He does, and the moon paints his face like a harlequin, half pale silver and half gray shadow. The deck lights shine in his eyes. "I trust you," she says now. "It was a long time coming, but I trust you. We're not kids anymore."

"I wasn't a kid then."

"Yes, you were. You'd never let yourself love any more than I had. You were emotionally a kid. Love is scary business."

"But you don't love me now," he says. It's pained.

She can't answer. All the words she might offer trip on her tongue. She can't say she loves him, but she can't say she doesn't, either. She falls back on clichés. "There are many kinds of love." She doesn't look at him as she says it and he, for once, doesn't rush to reassure her that he doesn't expect her to love him.

A corner has been turned. When had that happened? He wants her to love him back now, he doesn't just hope for it. He's no longer content to let her off that emotional hook any more than she's ready to be impaled on it. Even more surprising, she wishes she _could_ say the words. Who's the frightened one now? Who's running away?

But she isn't ready. She just isn't. So she gives him what she can. "You're my closest friend. You've become my closest friend, Edward. Isn't that enough?"

There is a hesitation like an indrawn breath. "Yes, of course," he says. He's lying, she thinks. She can't blame him.

Raising her eyes, she meets his. They are hot, but not with lust. They're hot with pain. If he could cry, she thinks he would be. Abruptly, he stands, snagging her wine glass although it's still half full, and goes back inside without a word. She clenches her teeth, fearing that perhaps he's cleaning up, preparing to take her home, and her stomach turns over, twisting inside her. She feels a little sick. But he's back in a minute. The wine glass is full again. She takes it and gives him as much of a smile as she can. "Will you play for me? I've missed hearing you play."

It's an olive branch and he takes it as such. His eyes and mouth soften a little. "What would you like to hear?"

"My lullaby -- what'd you think?" She smiles and his answering smile is more real. Nodding, he retreats inside but leaves the glass door open with just the screen to keep out the bugs. She can see him sit down at the piano, but he's hidden behind the bulk of it as he begins to play. The notes curl around her, soft and pure, fluttering against the whisper of the river and the wind in the pines. They carry her back a decade and she becomes again the girl she'd been, drunk on new love and convinced of endless possibility. The future had stretched before her like the river below. Dreams had been her boat. Closing her eyes, she _reaches_. For the first time since Edward walked back into her life, she _wants_ to remember how he'd made her feel, how joy had bubbled in her chest whenever she'd looked at his beautiful face or been near him, touched by him. She wants to recall how mad adoration had washed over and drowned her, leaving her smiling for no reason.

Like she's smiling now.

She'd been a girl in love with a boy. Simple. Priceless. And maybe, just maybe, she's become a woman in love with a man. Still priceless.

Still terrifying.

The notes trail off and she opens her eyes, tilting her head so she can see him. He's watching her over the top of the empty music stand. She blows him a kiss. It's a little silly. He grins back, no longer stiff -- just happy. Her heart flutters.

He is still beautiful.

It has nothing to do with his face.

* * *

**End notes:**

**I've been nominated, I've been nominated!**  
*Does silly little jig dance of joy*

**Go here: www-thecatt-net (... put a . for a - )**

I've been nominated for "The S. Meyer Award for Most Excellent Grammar, Punctuation, & Spelling" at the Eddie and Bellie Awards. I'm absurdly tickled by that, and not too ashamed to beg for votes. Hee. So if you appreciate chapters without typos, loads of spelling or grammar errors, please vote for me! As I'm up against the likes of the lovely and talented Oxymoronic with _Innocent, Vigilant and Ordinary_ or Caligula's beautiful _Irritable Grizzly Adams_, I don't really expect to win, but I'm still excited just to be nominated in their company.

**As always, a big smooch and thank you to everybody who takes a minute to leave a review.** I hope you liked this chapter. It's FINALLY no longer E/B "eventually." :-)


	35. Chapter 35

**Part Summary:** Rose has some questions. Trust her to ask the hard ones everybody else has been avoiding.

* * *

"You got her _drunk_?"

"I didn't _get_ her drunk, Rose. She managed that on her own; I wasn't aiming for it."

"Fine, you _let_ her get drunk. Split hairs if you must, Edward, the end result is the same."

Rosalie can imagine the face he's making. "I just didn't want you to worry if I don't bring her back until morning. She's sleeping."

"I'll come and get her tomorrow."

"You don't have to -- "

"I'll come and get her, or we won't see her until afternoon, knowing you." She thinks her voice sounds snippy, so she adds, "You weren't the only one who missed her, Edward." And she closes her Blackberry, staring at it a moment, then puts the phone away to go upstairs to Emmett.

"He got her drunk," she announces as she enters Emmett's workroom. Emmett looks up from his drafting table and she wonders what he's designing. "He fed her a whole bottle of wine, then acts surprised when she passed out on him."

Emmett chuckles but returns his attention to his work. "Idjit. And he's even more of one because he's gonna let her sleep chastely in the bed, too, I bet."

Rose rolls her eyes as she joins him. "She's more likely to seduce him than the reverse. What is that?" She points to the drafting paper.

"Alice wants rotating shelves for her shop, so stuff on the top racks isn't out of reach. Jasper's not always around to fetch things down, and she can't exactly make a super-leap herself in front of patrons." He points to the pencil sketch. "These top three shelves can be made to slide out and down along these runners so you can reach them even if you're Alice's height. But they go back up when you're done, so people our height won't smack our heads into 'em."

Rose grins and gives him a smooch on the cheek. "You're brilliant, Em."

He waggles his eyebrows at her. "You only now figured that out?"

These words earn him a smack on the back of his curly head. "Hush, you." But he is brilliant in his own pragmatic way. Give him a concrete puzzle to solve and he'll solve it. Unlike Jasper, he's never been interested in philosophy or other 'high falutin' topics. Born under the sign of the bull, he is stubborn, practical, yet drawn to beauty. The things he builds are lovely, not just useful. Emmett adores buildings of the gothic revival, neo-renaissance and art nouveau periods, but dislikes the post-war boom. "Squat, fat and ugly," he calls them. Rose thinks he should open an architecture studio here -- Lord knows, there's enough money floating around the Helen area -- but he says he doesn't want to right now. Instead, he's helping Esme with her restoration projects. The two of them work well together and Rose wonders, idly, why they never opened a joint business before. Probably because they were all too busy playing The Brady Bunch.

She is never going back to those days, and wonders now how she stood it as long as she did. She loves her current job -- feels truly _useful_ for the first time since becoming a vampire -- and is surprised by how much feeling useful lifts her self esteem. She knows they are dancing at the edge of the Volturi's damn "rules," but doesn't care. There is only one human who knows the truth about them, and she's not telling. Rose cuts herself off from thinking more about that and goes into her own office to sift through cases until sunrise when she can fetch Bella.

It's just a little after eight when she pulls up outside Esme's cabin. Edward has heard her and opens the front door. "She's still asleep," he says. He's speaking normally so he doesn't wake Bella but Rose can hear even from the driveway.

"That's fine," she says, making her way to the door until they're face to face. "I'm not due in court until one. It's you I want to talk to anyway." His eyebrow goes up but he doesn't otherwise answer, just steps aside to let her in. "Is Esme here?" she asks.

"No, she's still out. She should be back around nine."

Rose makes her way into the den-dining area and sets her purse on the kitchen counter, then leans up against it, arms and ankles crossed. She knows it's a defensive posture, but maintains it. This is the first time she and Edward have spoken alone since she moved back there. There's always been someone else present: Emmett, Esme, even Bella or Alice. She and Edward are still not entirely comfortable with one another. "What do you want, Rose?" he asks now.

At least he didn't lift her thoughts out of her head, although she's been thinking about car paint colors to keep him out. "I want to talk about you and Bella."

His eyebrow goes up again and he crosses his own arms, leaning against the refrigerator opposite in a mirror of her own posture. "What about us?"

Unfolding her arms, she spreads her hands. "Where is all this going, Edward?"

"What's that supposed to mean? You know how I feel about her."

"I'm not asking for your romantic playbook. I want to know if you've given any _ real_ thought to what's going to happen if and when she takes you back? Because Lord knows, you didn't give any thought to it the first time."

His eyes narrow. "I know you didn't approve then, and I know you don't approve now -- "

"You know nothing of the kind! You have a bad habit of assuming that because you can read my mind sometimes you know what I'm thinking all the time. You don't. So stop it."

"You made it _crystal_ clear before that you didn't approve of my pursuit of Bella! Don't rewrite the past now as it suits you. I thought you'd grown past petty jealousies? I thought you liked her now?"

"Oh, for pity sake!" she snarls. "You are such an ass! I never had anything against _Bella_! Not then, and certainly not now. What upset me before and worries me now is that you're diving into this without any clear idea of where it's going to wind up. Do you have a clue? That's _irresponsible_ -- to the family and to Bella -- and I won't stand by and smile just because you're _Edward_, and can do no wrong. You've done plenty wrong."

His expression is thunder. "I'm well aware of that."

"Then where is this going? You've been pursuing her for almost a year and she's starting to return your affection. I've seen the change this fall. What comes next?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"The business of a friend." Rose isn't going to back down; it's too important. "What comes next, Edward? Are you prepared to stick around this time? She's not a virginal child any more. She's a widow -- and she's going to want more from you than hand-holding and kisses. Have you thought about that? Moreover, this job with the shelter is temporary -- for all of us. The shelter will continue -- I hope -- but we've got maybe seven years here, tops. More like five. Bella will be finished with her degree by then and it'll be time to move on. What then, Edward?"

He frowns and won't look at her. "I don't know. I reckon I'll . . . go wherever she finds a job."

"As her boy-toy or her little brother?" He jerks up his chin to glare but she shows him no pity. "You have to think about this. How long until it's her _son_ you're pretending to be?"

"Enough, Rose."

"No! I'm not going to shut up just because it's an uncomfortable topic. You need to consider your options."

"You want me to leave her?" He sounds incredulous, and she'd roll her eyes at how dense the male of the species can be, except it's not really the male of the species. It's just Edward.

"We all saw what you leaving brought her last time. That's not my suggestion at all." She feels her own expression soften. "Bella's part of this family now. Even if you _were_ idiot enough to leave her again, the rest of us no longer take orders from you and we plan to stick around as her friends."

"Then what the hell are you suggesting?" His voice has raised enough that Rose tilts her head towards the back guest room where Bella is -- Rose hopes -- still sleeping.

"I'm suggesting that you make her _fully_ a member of this family. If she wants it."

"Make her a _vampire_?" he squeaks, astonished. "I thought you and I were the ones most against that idea before?"

"We were. I was. I'm still not entirely sold on it, but I was against it then because she was only seventeen. How can anybody seventeen know for certain what she wants to do with her life, no matter how mature she might be for her age? It wasn't a matter of life and death for her. There was no _reason_ to change her, and a lot of reasons not to. She's twenty-eight now. And if she does want . . . maybe . . . Edward, surely you've considered it -- making her a vampire might let her _walk_ again."

It's been on Rose's mind of late. As Bella's place in the family has solidified, and her affection for Edward has renewed itself, Rose has come increasingly to think that turning Bella might allow her to leave the wheelchair behind.

Now, Edward looks dumbstruck, his mouth hanging open. Rose takes advantage of his silence to push on, "Assuming she'd want it, we wouldn't be able to change her while we're still here. It would be too obvious -- not to mention she'd need to be isolated for a year or two while she adjusts. But this is what I mean by thinking about the future. _If_ Bella wants to become one of us, we can help her get her dissertation finished, then move back to Denali and change her. You could attribute her walking to the work you've been doing with stem-cells -- "

"_Stop!_" Edward hisses, cutting off Rose in mid-sentence. "I am not changing her, I don't think she even wants to be changed now and changing her won't necessarily heal her, Rose. You could be sticking her in that damn chair for eternity!"

His face would be purple if he had blood still. And his words take Rose by surprise. "What? The Change heals us. You saw what Emmett looked like when I brought him to Carlisle; that bear nearly tore him in half! And me -- they hurt me so badly both my hips were dislocated. Esme was broken all over -- "

"The Change heals _wounds_, Rose. Current wounds. Bella's back is _healed_. It's been healed for years. It's damaged, but it's healed as much as it's going to." He looks away. "I'm not sure what the Change would do to her. It might cause her spinal cord to fix itself -- or it might not. I don't _know_, and I don't want to take that chance. If we change her and it doesn't fix her back -- that's forever."

For a full minute, neither of them speaks; the weight of his words hold them mute. Finally, Rose says, "Surely there are vampires who had healed wounds from before their Change. You could see what happened in their cases. I know Emmett got hurt a lot -- "

"I thought of that. I've thought this whole thing through. I talked to Emmett. His old wounds were mostly cuts and bruises, nothing permanent; he never actually broke anything -- but Esme did. She let me X-ray her and her tibia still shows a calcium line from the break. It's faint, but it's there. None of us had scars to speak of, and scars fade anyway unless they're major. I've seen vampires who had tattoos as humans and they've still got them as vampires. Remember Victoria? Jasper said Maria's ears had been pierced as a baby and still were as a vampire. The piercings didn't close." He pauses and looks away, out the kitchen window. "And, um . . . I'm still circumcised. My foreskin didn't regrow."

Rose would have called "too much information" at that point, but the doctor in her is fascinated. Emmett isn't circumcised but she knows he was born at home, not in a hospital, so he probably wasn't circumcised to begin with.

Abruptly Edward pushes away from the refrigerator and stalks in a circle while Rose watches. "I have no evidence that the Change repairs _healed_ wounds, and some evidence to suggest it doesn't. Add to that we're talking about a _spinal cord_ injury, which just compounds the problem. SCI is in a special category anyway. Your bones will heal, but your spinal cord won't. Damage to it is usually permanent. Maybe if I'd got to her in the first year after the injury . . . but nine years after the fact? It's too late.

"I could ask the Volturi," he continues, still pacing. "They're most likely to know if any other paralyzed humans have been made into vampires, but I'd have to explain _why_ I'm asking . . . and then they'd insist Bella become a vampire or be killed. It's not precisely an 'idle curiosity' question, even from a vampire neurosurgeon."

"You could embed it in a list of questions about the effects of the Change on all sorts of neurological damage," Rose suggests.

He shakes his head. "I'm not risking it. The last thing we need are the Volturi nosing around. I've asked Carlisle, of course, but he can't think of any similar cases -- even tangential ones. Vampires are rarely forthcoming about their human lives, if they even remember."

He stops pacing and spins to face Rose. "If I change her, I could damn her to that chair _forever_. Never mind any question of her immortal soul -- how would you like to spend eternity with a body unresponsive from the waist down? Fun time hunting, wouldn't it be?" He turns away from her. "I'm more likely to see her walk by injecting neurotrophin 3 or embryonic stem cells into her spinal column than venom into her blood. Venom isn't magic. It's _venom_ -- poison."

Rosalie doesn't immediately respond. Finally, she says, "You could have told me all this earlier, you know. You're not the only one with a medical degree. I could help work on this. So could Carlisle."

He waves a hand. "Carlisle works round the clock as it is, and he doesn't have access to a medical library, much less a laboratory. And you've . . . had cases to see to. I respect what you do, Rosalie. Besides" -- his lips curl -- "you weren't talking to me until about ten months ago. I could hardly tell you about my research into corticospinal axonal re-growth."

"Well, I know about it now," she says. "So I want copies of all the articles you've read and an abstract of your current research. Two heads are better than one."

He snorts. "I'm doing a residency, Rose. I've no time for research at the moment. I need this year under my belt, then I'll work on a grant proposal for CRPF."

"You know you could fund your own research."

"Of course. But it looks suspicious -- just like trying to fund the shelter all by ourselves. I can always add additional funds to whatever I get so I don't have to work on a shoestring budget. I need the labs at Emory anyway, which means bringing forward a grant from at least one reputable foundation, not something from a group they've never heard of before."

He frowns and draws figure-8s on the counter. "You asked if I had plans for the future -- I do. Obviously." He looks over at her. "But none involve making Bella like us. If that means I'm pretending to be her son in fifteen years instead of her . . . whatever I am -- "

"Boyfriend."

"Not yet."

"Good as." One side of Rose's mouth quirks.

"Well, the point is, I'll play whatever role I need so we can be together as long as she'll let me. But I'm going to see her walk again. My leaving led her to jump. She says it was her choice, and okay, it was. But I'm still at least partly at fault. I broke her. So I'm going to fix her."

"Very noble," Rose says. She's not even being sarcastic. "Have you told _her_ any of this?"

"Yes. Well, not the part about feeling responsible -- she'd just get angry -- but she knows the direction of my research, yes."

Rose nods her head once. "You're learning, Edward. Slowly, but you are learning."

* * *

**End notes: **Surprise? I know a lot of you have asked/assumed that the Change would heal Bella, but I've given a lot of thought to it and I don't think we have enough evidence to know for certain one way or the other. SMeyer said a person stays in the exact state they were at the time they're changed, although [death] wounds (obviously) heal. But a pregnant woman would remain pregnant, etc. Of course, pregnancy is a "natural" (if atypical) state, whereas SCI isn't. Still, it's not clear what happens with old wounds that have healed, or for that matter, birth defects. So I don't think we can just assume Bella would be healed. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't -- a fan writer could spin it either way. But I wanted to play with uncertainty on Edward's part. I'll be addressing this further later.

I realize that Edward would probably use more medical jargon while talking to Rose (NT3 not neurotrophin 3), but in deference to the fact most of us aren't medical people, I used the full terms. One acronym however: CRPF = Christopher Reeves Paralysis Foundation. On pierced ears -- none of the Cullen women would have had pierced ears as humans. It was a big no-no then. By contrast, Mexican Maria would probably have had pierced ears even in the 1800s. (And I assume that if we the readers didn't learn about Maria until _Eclipse_, the Cullens knew.) On circumcision -- Edward might be circumcised; it was just coming into vogue as a "sanitation" measure and he was probably born in a hospital. But Jasper, Emmett and Carlisle almost certainly aren't.

Last, on turning Bella, while I know the family vote occurred at the end of _New Moon_ -- past where this story diverges -- Bella's wish to become a vampire had already been expressed to Edward, as well as his resistance to the idea.

Also, a reminder that the Eddie and Bellie awards are running through March 4th -- the voting was extended because of ff-net's downtime. Go over there and give a look-see to all the really great stories!

**Go here: www-thecatt-net (... put a . for a - )**

**As always, a big smooch and thank you to everybody who takes a minute to leave a review.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Part Summary:** Martha Jackson, Mark's mother, is coming to Helen. Bella talks to Alice about how to maintain their facade ... among other things.

_(Sorry for the delay. I've been working on 2 chapters at once, so the next might be up soon! No promises, though.)_

* * *

Bella isn't ready.

She isn't ready for her Mark to have been dead a year. She isn't ready for this . . . whatever it is that's been blooming between her and Edward. She isn't ready to start writing her dissertation although Lorraine has been asking for her methodology chapter for the last four months with ever-increasing but unspoken concern that Bella will turn out to be just another ABD (all-but-dissertation). But Bella isn't a quitter. She's just tired, and has been focused on the shelter.

She also isn't ready for Martha Jackson to come to Helen for a visit, but coming she is. In the midst of all the other things preying on her mind in the last weeks of September, Bella receives a phone call from Martha to ask -- gently -- whether she might not like to have company on the anniversary of Mark's passing? And what is Bella supposed to say? "No, I'm sorry, but you might discover I'm living with a coven of vampires?" So she says the only thing she can, "Let me check with Rose and Mac, but I think it'll be all right."

She knows Martha isn't checking up on her, but they've talked less and less as time has passed and Bella suspects Martha is worried. Even more, though, Martha may need to be with Bella just as much as she thinks Bella needs her there. She still has two daughters, but Mark was her baby.

There's just the little problem of the Cullens. Unlike Renee, Martha is observant. So instead of talking to Rose and Emmett about having a house guest, she goes to Alice's shop that afternoon. It's a Sunday and she drives herself in the shelter van. It's nice to be able to come and go on her own time after bending her life for so long to bus schedules. The handicapped spot near Alice's shop is open and Bella pulls in, turning off the engine. Spinning the driver's transfer seat around, she levers herself back into the chair, opens the door and lowers the ramp.

Alice is waiting, standing in the open shop door to catch the cool autumn afternoon breeze, and Bella is glad she doesn't have to fight with the door. Nobody is browsing and as it's 3:30, Alice turns the sign to "closed" then locks the door behind them. Bella opens her mouth to explain why she's come but Alice cuts her off with, "Oh, I know Reverend Jackson wants to visit you," and heads for the back of the store. Bella follows.

Alice's little corner shop is a study in organized, artful chaos. She sells "accessories" but what she actually sells is folk art by local craftswomen -- handwoven scarves, hats and shawls; original jewelry; leather belts and purses; tatted doilies and crocheted throws; knitted socks and gloves; even hand-painted dolls and wooden toy animal sets -- zoo, sea, barnyard. Bella likes the latter and picks up a little wooden lamb to turn in her fingers.

Alice hops up to sit on the counter, legs swinging. "Okay," she says. "So Reverend Jackson _will_ be coming; I've seen it. In most cases, the visit goes fine, as long as certain conditions are met -- namely that she doesn't meet too many of us at once and Rose and Emmett aren't in the house much. I've talked to Jasper and he's happy to go hunting with Emmett for several days. The eighteenth is in the middle of the week, but it's also the first day of deer season so she won't even question why they're gone. Edward can just stay in his apartment in Atlanta. Rose works all the time anyway so for those days, she can do it at her firm instead of the house office. It'll seem less strange to Martha if Rose doesn't eat much when she's home than if somebody the size of Emmett doesn't.

"That's the biggest issue we need to navigate -- having a human stay in a house with us without giving ourselves away. The rest we can work around. We've been interacting with humans for decades, and if it's just me and Esme, I don't foresee any problems. Meeting us singularly and for short periods, it's much easier to explain our eccentricities."

Bella wonders if Alice took a breath through any of that, but she's clearly covered all the angles.

"So it'll be safe?"

"It should be," Alice says with a firm nod, "since she'll be here in the middle of the week."

"She's got Sunday services to get back to," Bella explains.

"Of course, but the middle of a week is also easier for us to work around." Alice tips her head and eyes Bella. "You need to keep her away from Lorraine Michaels, though."

"I do?" Bella hadn't especially intended to take Martha to Dawesonville in the first place, much less take her by her advisor's office.

Alice nods. "She'll want to talk to Mark's professor, the one who's preparing those last articles of his for publication -- "

"DeSanti."

"Yes. So you'll be driving over there on Thursday. You need to be sure you arrive after noon so you won't run into Lorraine."

"Why?"

Alice's smile is a little rueful. "You told Lorraine a different story than the one you told your mom and Martha -- remember? Lorraine knows you went to school with Edward, and that Edward knew Mark. If you go too early, you'll run into her, and she'll mention what you said in passing to Martha, thinking nothing of it -- but Martha was told Edward is involved with the shelter because you know his sister."

"Oh." Bella sees the contradiction now, but, "I didn't consider that at the time. I just didn't want her thinking that Edward was, uh, taking Mark's place."

Alice nods. "I know. But we've been at this longer, and consistency is critical. Edward should have known better. I don't believe this will be a problem; Lorraine is the only one you told that to. Just don't mention it to anybody else, especially anybody involved with the shelter. The fact you knew Rose and Esme, and Edward just happened to know Mark as well is a little too much coincidence." Alice is looking at Bella with an odd intensity. "In fact, it might be best if you don't talk about Edward at all."

Bella frowns. "Why?"

"Um, well . . . " She hesitates and it's a funny sight -- Alice hunting for words. "When you talk about him now, you wear your heart on your sleeve."

Bella isn't sure how to respond to that. Turning her head, she stares out the front window, squinting into the afternoon glare. This is the first time anybody in the family has brought up the topic of _her_ changing feelings for Edward, not just his persistent love for her. Bella wonders if Alice didn't angle the conversation in this direction, but won't accuse her of it. She's suddenly aware that Jasper is standing in the rear doorway, having come up from his basement den. She seizes on his appearance for a topic change. "Hi, Jasper. How goes the book?"

"Pretty good," he says, coming into the light. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. "I'm sorry I won't be here to meet Mark's mother. I'd love to get her input on how independent Baptist churches deal with the larger Southern Baptist Convention on the subject of women's ordination. I'm planning a whole chapter on the emergence of women clergy in Southern Protestantism from the African Methodist Episcopals' first appointment in 1948 down to the present."

Bella grins. "Always the academic. But you're not Jasper Whitlock to Martha." In Minnesota, he'd been playing the role of his own grandson, following in the academic footsteps of the famous J. A. Whitlock. The book he's working on is in the guise of Jasper A. Whitlock III, in fact, but here, he has to be Rosalie's reclusive brother.

"I could still be studying religion," he points out.

"But you couldn't interview her for the book."

"I know." He sighs. It sounds long-suffering.

Alice is grinning at him. It's fond. "The poor woman isn't coming to be your interview subject, Jazz."

"I know," he says again, and hoists himself up onto the counter beside her. They don't touch beyond the edge of hands. His right pinky hooks over her left. Bella thinks that small gesture is more intimate than some of the antics Emmett and Rose get up to at the house. He is studying her. "How are you, Bella?" he asks. From Jasper, that's never an idle question.

She looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I'm fine," she says, trying to duck the question anyway.

"You're on edge and you're tired," he tells her. It's not accusatory, more a simple statement. "I don't think you've been sleeping well, and I wouldn't call that 'fine.'"

Bella is now fairly certain Alice's earlier observation about her feelings for Edward wasn't accidental. Jasper's appearance upstairs on the heels of it is entirely too convenient. They've ambushed her. She'd like to be angry, but she'd also like to talk to somebody and she won't talk to Rose. Rose is like a bull in a china shop when it comes to feelings, and Emmett isn't much better. If the both of them are a perfect match in their honesty and bluntness, that's not always what Bella needs. Esme is less pushy, but Bella isn't about to talk to her about Edward, nor can she talk to Edward himself. That leaves Alice and Jasper . . . who have conveniently backed her into a corner so she will talk.

"I'm not ready," she says now -- or really, blurts out. "I'm not ready for any of this." Neither Jasper nor Alice speak and after the silence stretches, Bella caves and starts to ramble. "I don't know what's going on with Edward. Something's different but I'm just . . . I'm not ready. It still feels like it's too soon. I know it's been almost a year but it's still too soon -- "

"Grief doesn't have a time-table," Jasper tells her gently. "Most people expect to heal sooner than they actually do. They get impatient with themselves, or with others. Only you know if it's too soon, and if you're feeling pressured by Edward, then -- "

"No, not by Edward," Bella interrupts. "Not really. It's me. _I_ feel these . . . things. But I'm not ready to feel them. And Edward's been so patient . . . " She trails off.

"He can stay patient," Alice says. "Bella, really. He's waited for you all this time. If you need another month or two -- or five -- he'll wait longer. It won't kill him. A man should wait for a woman. Right, Jasper?"

Jasper raises both hands in mock surrender. "Absolutely." He's half-laughing. It makes Bella smile despite herself.

"I'm just not used to feeling this unsettled. I had Mark for so long, I've forgotten how to do . . . this." She makes a vague gesture for a vague designation.

"You never liked feeling out of control or out of the loop," Alice reminds her. "Back in Forks -- I remember. You were very sure of yourself even then. Edward called you stubborn, but I don't think it's just stubbornness."

"Centered," Jasper offers. "You were self-contained in a way most teenagers aren't. It made you feel older to us."

"Maybe," Bella concedes. "I only remember feeling completely discombobulated by Edward, but when you're younger, it's easier to take chances on new relationships. I'm more set in my ways now. Mark and I . . . we grew up together -- and grew into each other. Starting over is hard -- hard to . . . to _risk_ like that."

Alice and Jasper are both nodding. "That's true for vampires, too," Jasper says. "Only magnified. I was a hundred when I found Alice and I'd been on my own for a number of years before. She confused the hell out of me for a long time."

Laughing, Alice elbows him, then adds, "Even with what I knew would be for us, and despite our both wanting it, we had to get used to each other. At least with Edward, you aren't starting from scratch. You know him."

"Quite well, in fact," Jasper adds.

Bella pinches the bridge of her nose -- realizing only after the fact that it's Edward's favorite 'frustrated' gesture. "I'm not the girl he fell in love with back then."

"No, you're the _woman_ he fell in love with fully later," Jasper corrects. "He doesn't want the old Bella back."

"I know," Bella says. And she does know. It's not Edward's feelings that she doubts. It's herself and all the issues that, at seventeen, she'd discounted as worthy of consideration. But she no longer sees life as an open road with no destination and must consider such things as a career, her family, and where she'll be in ten years -- or twenty. Already she must hide Edward from Charlie and Renee because there's no way to explain away the fact he hasn't aged. What sort of life could they have together if she must reinvent him for the public every decade, then hide from those who'd recognize the deception? She could keep Jacob and Irene, but what of the rest? She wants stability, and to have friends who've been friends for years. Life is a web formed of many threads, not just a few. Even if she were to become what Edward is, frozen in time, she understands at last what such a choice would really _mean_ -- all the ramifications. She'd felt the full weight of their tragedy when she was at the Blacks' party. As a teen, she'd felt detached from her parents but that had arisen from the typical adolescent need to establish her independence. To grow up. Now she _is_ grown up and no longer wants to push her parents away. She is their only child. Family is family, and she's unwilling to sacrifice hers in order to gain the Cullens.

While considering this, she's leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the wheels and fingers pressed to her temples. She looks up when she feels Alice's cool hands grip her wrists and pull her own hands down. "There's no reason to hurry into anything," Alice says. Her breath across Bella's face is almost as sweet as Edward's and it reminds her of what Edward had once told her -- vampires are designed to draw in humans, hypnotize and relax them until they don't struggle. "Just let it happen. When it's time, you'll know."

But Bella needs to struggle. Struggle is human. "Is that the sibyl speaking, or just common sense?"

She catches Alice's grin. "Both?"

"So this _is_ going somewhere? Whatever I'm feeling for Edward?"

Alice shakes her head firmly. "_You_ have to choose that. I won't tell you what to do next, Bella. It would be wrong."

"I don't want you to tell me what to do. I just want to know if there's some sort of future for us that's not a tragedy?"

Alice's face is very solemn, her features touched with none of her usual good humor as she kneels still in front of Bella's chair. "I see many possibilities -- and you could be happy in a lot of them, both with or without Edward."

"And Edward?"

"This is about Bella. Let Edward take care of Edward."

Bella shakes her head. "Not that easy, Alice. Part of caring about somebody else means caring _for_ them."

"Of course, but you've spent a lot of your life caring _for_ others and forgetting to care for yourself."

"As a girl, yes. Not so much as an adult. Mark taught me how to give and take. It's unhealthy if you're always the one giving up, but when you care for each other, it works out. You see to their needs and they see to yours."

"And you want to see to Edward's?" Jasper asks softly from where he's still sitting on the counter.

"Well, yes, of course," Bella replies without thinking.

Alice is grinning; so is Jasper. "Then maybe you're more ready than you think you are," Jasper says.

"Just let it happen." Alice repeats her advice. "Stop second-guessing yourself and just let it happen when it's time."

"But it feels like it's too soon."

"As I said before," Jasper tells her, "if it's too soon for _you_, then there's no reason to rush. But if you're just worried what others will think? You know better than that. You don't need anybody's permission to be happy -- except your own." His smile is gentle. "So be happy."

* * *

**Notes:** Yes, Bella has a case of cold feet, but give her a little latitude.

Also, congratulations to the ever-talented Oxymoronic8 for winning the S. Meyer award for grammar in the Eddies and Bellies. Considering how much I like _Innocent, Vigilant and Ordinary_ (along with a whole lot of other people!), I'm not in the least surprised!

And this story now has over 1000 reveiws! Woot! Thank y'all so much! I still do my best to answer all signed reviews.

Also ... I keep forgetting to say, but this story does have a thread over on the forums at Twilighted-net, under the AU topics of the Fanfic section. So if anybody has questions or wants to discuss it, you're more than welcome there. :-)


	37. Chapter 37

**Part Summary:** Martha arrives in Helen -- and Hannah Jones is back, too.

_(This is really the second part of the previous chapter. It's going up so fast because I wrote them back-to-back and have just been editing ... but also working on chapter 38, which is all Edward. This chapter is a workhorse chapter. Lots of things happen but despite Bella's occasional water-works, it didn't feel as emotionally heavily while writing it. I think that's partly because Bella IS ready to move on, but isn't sure that she's ready to be ready, if that makes sense. It's as much her own grief that she's grieving for right now as it is Mark.)_

* * *

Martha shows up with groceries. "Because I know how you eat, hon. Frozen food ain't healthy."

Bella sighs, but helps her unload things. If Martha is either put-off or impressed by Rose and Emmett's big house, she says nothing, just makes herself at home in their kitchen. Rose has put in an appearance for Martha's arrival, but stands on the other side of the bar, watching Martha with bemusement. Her lacquered nails click on the counter top. "Let me make you girls a sandwich," Martha says once most of the groceries have been stuffed away.

"I never eat after seven in the evening," Rose lies easily. "It just goes straight to my hips and I won't fit into my suits."

Martha doesn't push, settling instead for making Bella a sandwich. Rose excuses herself and disappears upstairs as soon as she thinks she can get away with it and Martha watches her go. "She's uncomfortable. You know I could stay in a motel -- "

"Absolutely not," Bella replies. "And Rose is just . . . Rose. She honestly doesn't mind you being here. I'd say she's shy but it's not really shyness."

"Her retreat has been invaded," Martha muses, looking thoughtful.

"I _live_ here, so I invade constantly."

"But you're not a stranger. There's a difference, hon. Introverts need their space."

Bella starts to object but can't, realizing Martha has pegged Rosalie perfectly in less than half an hour, not succumbing to any of the misperceptions about her that people usually make. Unlike Emmett, Rose _is_ an introvert, and while she can open her home to social events and put herself on display when necessary -- even likes it -- in the normal course of things, her house is her sanctuary and she doesn't welcome people here beyond her family.

It strikes Bella that she is now considered by Rose to be family.

Martha says nothing else about Rosalie, launching instead into questions regarding the shelter or Bella's dissertation. They stay up until midnight visiting, but still wake early. Rose is already gone, and Martha makes breakfast. When they're finished, Bella drives them to the shelter while Martha asks questions about the hand-controls on the van, then the Oktoberfest currently overrunning the town -- Helen makes much of its Alpine theme -- as well as the population of White County, how many are summer residents versus year-round citizens. "I got a Methodist minister friend who owns a cabin up near Lake Junaluska," she says. Junaluska is a little over an hour away just across the border into North Carolina. "They come up in April and leave at the end of October."

"We have those too. White County is a strange area," Bella tells her. "Some people here have loads of money, others are pretty poor. Tourism is the number one industry, as you can imagine, and not a few are part-time residents. The town used to be a gold-mining town."

The shelter lies off the beaten track on property that Esme found last March. The old farmhouse had been falling down -- quite literally. Esme had removed the wood-burning stove and antique washbasins, then pulled down the rest except for the fireplace, and started over on the foundation. She and Emmett had it rebuilt in six months. Today, it's a charming three-story blue clapboard with room for six families plus a small basement apartment for the live-in resident. Six families aren't many, but they'd thought it a good place to start. Esme and Emmett will add another wing next summer if it continues to grow and Bella thinks it will. Word is still getting out. Presently, four families occupy the shelter, plus one woman without children.

Their live-in staff resident, Madison Snow, greets them at the door as she prepares to leave for day classes. She attends a Baptist college down the highway in Cleveland, so she and Martha hit it off immediately. She studies early childhood education and is newly engaged, working at the shelter to have a place to stay so she can save money for her wedding. Edward has said he finds her tiresome in all her wholesome cheerfulness, but she's neither judgmental nor pushy about saving the souls of the women here -- at least not overtly -- so Bella can live with that. They'd had a long talk about lines in the sand when Maddy had first applied for the residency. The McCarty House might be a private non-profit, but has no religious affiliation and Bella had wanted it very clear that no proselytizing would be tolerated. Maddy's respected that. She might not be a feminist, nor in favor of divorce, but she's perfectly fine with women who flee abusive situations and has a natural empathy that the residents respond to. She also grew up in the area and holds religious views closer to the bulk of their clients' than Bella's or Rose's -- as evinced by Hannah Jones's strong words for Rose when she'd left last August. Having Madison around has helped in the occasional religious communication divide here in the Southern Bible Belt. In addition to Maddy, their volunteer staff includes two retirees who handle childcare during the day, a vocational counselor who comes in twice a week, and a family therapist who leads group meetings on Saturdays as well as offers private counseling. All are women. Alice remains their business manager. On Sunday evenings, local pastors trade off chapel duty. Everybody who wants to meets in the living room for services. Esme and Maddy always attend. Bella and Rose do their best to avoid it.

Martha spends the morning talking to residents while Bella answers mail and phone messages, then deals with next month's schedule. That afternoon, Martha takes over the phones while Bella has meetings with the women. Martha is contacting local black congregations in White, Hall, and Habersham Counties. All their current shelter occupants and staff are Caucasian. In fact, they've had only one black family since opening and Bella hopes Martha can build some bridges with the local African-American community. Bella has already contacted local churches herself, of course, but having been married to Mark, she's all too aware of racial divides and a white woman activist gets a smile and nod, then is sent on her merry way. Martha is heard differently. By the end of the afternoon, not only has Martha made firm contacts, but she has a black female therapist, the wife of a local pastor, lined up to volunteer in addition to Bella's current staff. Bella is thrilled.

Dinner is shared at the shelter, a noisy affair, and it's well past sunset by the time the two of them return to Rose's house. Rose is still gone. Martha and Bella talk a little about how to spend the next day, the anniversary of Mark's death. Martha has brought a sugar maple sapling to plant in the shelter's back yard in memory of him. "It'll turn pink and red in the fall," she says. "Bright like he was." Bella finds herself bursting into tears at that, and they have a good cry together. Bella goes to bed feeling drained but cleaned out, waking the next morning to a brilliant dawn, crisp like the day a year ago when she and Mark had caught the bus together into Dawes College -- the last time she'd seen him alive.

She lies in bed a while, mustering the strength to face the larger world, listening as the wind rustles dry autumn leaves. Finally rising, she showers and meets Martha downstairs. Somewhat to her surprise, she finds Esme -- "Ann" -- there too. Esme and Martha are deep in conversation, and both smile when Bella emerges. "Eggs and bacon are in the oven, staying warm," Martha tells her as Esme rises to hug Bella hello.

Given the brightness outside, Bella wonders how Esme plans to depart without sparkling all over the lawn and sidewalk. But Esme explains in the next moment: "I came to finish my work on Rosalie's office upstairs." She leaves them both not long after, taking the warm coffee Martha offers (and Bella knows will be poured down a bathroom sink).

When she's gone, Martha says, kindly, "She's checking up on you."

"I figured as much," Bella replies around a bite of egg. "What were the two of you discussing?"

"Not you," Martha says with a wink, recognizing Bella's fishing. "We were talking about the shelter and she told me her own story, how she left her husband." The modified story, no doubt, the one Esme uses with residents. "She asked me some about Mark, and told me she has a spot marked out and ready for our sapling."

"Sounds like Ann," Bella replies.

The planting of Mark's tree is a quiet event just for Bella and Martha. The spot Esme prepared includes a pre-dug hole. Martha is surprised and Bella, who knows Esme did it herself, says Esme's brother probably dug it, instead. As per Alice's warning, it is the first time she's made any reference to Edward. Martha asks if she'll get to meet him, to thank him. Bella says probably not; he's working all week in Atlanta. That is the extent of their conversation about Edward and Bella is glad. She doesn't want to think about Edward today of all days.

Martha plants the sapling and stakes it against harsh winds. Autumn isn't the best season for planting but the leaves have only started to turn and the leaf-peepers have arrived in the area -- tourists come to watch the mountainsides turn yellow and pink and red. It will be another month until there's a hard freeze, Bella thinks. When she's finished patting down the dirt, Martha says a prayer and the two of them sit in silence for a while. Bella doesn't cry much, just a few tears leak out. After a while, Martha leans over to take Bella's left hand, tapping her wedding ring. "It's time to take it off now, hon."

Bella fists her hand inside Martha's plump one. "Tomorrow," she says.

"Tomorrow then," Martha replies, letting Bella's hand go.

They are silent once more until Martha says, "Sometimes -- maybe most of the time -- young widows and widowers drift away from the families of their late spouses." She turns to look at Bella. The bright morning sun shines on her skin, turning it rich like the earth she'd packed around Mark's sapling. "But you'll always be my daughter -- even after you find somebody else and marry again."

Bella has feared this conversation and squirms in her chair, uncomfortable. Martha isn't watching directly, but Bella thinks she is watching from the corner of her eye. "I don't need to tell you Mark would want you to find somebody and be happy," Martha says. "You already know that. Today we remember him. Tomorrow, life goes on again. But I did want to make it clear that I want to stay part of that life. You're our family, hon. Mark may have brought you to us, but you're ours now and you always will be. I fully expect a call someday to tell Mama Martha all about the handsome new boy you met -- and I don't want you thinking I'll resent you or think you forgot my son. I know you better than that. We don't forget the ones who leave us. We just learn to go on living."

Bella feels hot tears spill over in earnest now, tears she thought she'd escaped, and feels knotted up inside, her stomach a little sick with anxiety. She should probably have anticipated something like this from Martha, but hadn't. She's never known another widow her age, only divorcees who hadn't wanted to stay part of their exs' families, and she realizes she'd assumed that without Mark to anchor her, or children, she'd eventually lose touch with the Jacksons. One part of her is deeply grateful she won't. Martha has been more a mother to her than her own mother and Mark's sisters became the siblings Bella never had. There aren't many mothers-in-law who'd tell their widowed daughters-in-law they want to hear the dish about her new man. Martha is unique. Of course, not many mothers-in-law are pastors, either.

Martha has reached over to pat her hand, but doesn't ask for overt agreement. Perhaps she takes Bella's tears for that. And they are. But Bella's tears also spring from stress and anxiety. Martha's offer is an unlooked for complication. Keeping her unaware of the Cullens' secrets will be difficult even in a best-case scenario.

Tomorrow, Bella tells herself. She'll worry about all this tomorrow. Today, she'll just be grateful.

The ring of Bella's cell phone interrupts further conversation and she wipes her eyes, sniffing heavily as she fishes in the chair pocket for it. Not recognizing the calling number, she flips it open. "This is Bella Jackson."

"Bella," says a woman's crisp voice on the other end, "It's Anita Jeffries with the White County Sheriff's Office." Jeffries is one of the female police officers who bring women to the shelter now and then. Some arrive via contact through Alice's shop -- the shelter's public face -- but some are delivered directly. "I'm at the hospital," Jeffries goes on. "I wanted to see if you have room for a new family?"

"Yes, of course. We've got four right now and a single, but we can take another. What happened?"

"A young woman was brought in this morning by ambulance after a 911 call concerning a domestic dispute. The officers on the scene took custody of her children too."

"Oh, no," Bella says softly. "How are they?"

"The kids are shook, but physically fine. Their mom has a broken arm, black eye and some bruises and lacerations. I'll explain more when we get there. I just wanted to be sure there was room."

"There is. How soon before you arrive?"

"Probably not for a while. We've got reports to file and the hospital needs to release her. Don't expect us before one at the earliest. I'll call again when we're on the way."

Bella hangs up and looks at Martha. "New resident coming. I know we were supposed to take the day off -- "

Martha just shakes her head. "Best way to honor Mark's memory is caring for people. Let's go get a room ready."

As she predicted, Officer Jeffries arrives about one with their new charges. It's none other than Hannah Jones and her three children -- the shelter's very first residents back in July. Hannah's right arm is in a sling and one eye is swollen shut. Her face is striped with stitched cuts and she walks hunched over. Her unbroken arm looks like a checkerboard of bruises. Her nightdress is clearly ripped, and someone at the hospital gave her a scrub top to cover herself. Her youngest clings to her skirts and won't let go; the other two appear shell-shocked. Bella is glad for Martha, who takes charge of the children, peeling the little girl off her mother, while Bella talks to Hannah. Esme is called but Bella knows the sunshine will make it tricky for her to get here.

Hannah has a hard time describing what happened. She speaks in raw whispers, seeming half humiliated, half terrified, and chain-smokes during the whole intake interview. Residents have arrived before with physical injuries, but this is the worst Bella has yet seen, and she's quietly horrified, her body torn between sympathy and mild repulsion. "He threatened to kill me," Hannah says. "He came home at five this morning -- out all night drinking away our money. I cussed him out good but I shouldna done that. I get impatient sometimes and he smacked me around some for my sharp tongue." Unconsciously, she touches the side of her face near her black eye.

"Hannah," Bella says softly, "nothing gives anybody the right to hit you." Bella knows that Hannah's tongue _can_ be sharp and her temper short, but that's not an excuse.

Hannah finishes one cigarette and pulls out a second; between her shaking hands and broken arm, it takes her three tries to connect the lighter flame with the end of her Benson & Hedges. Finally she manages, then goes on, "Jenna woke up and came downstairs when she heard us shouting. She was crying and begging him to stop. He smacked her too, and I lost my temper at that. I went right for him. He's gonna claim I tried to choke him, the son of a bitch -- and I did. He hit my daughter. I scratched his face and got my hands around his throat but he threw me into the kitchen table and told me he was gonna kill me. That's how I broke my arm. He came after me with a bar stool but Jenna threw herself on top of me, so he just left. I was afraid he'd gone out to the shed for his rifle, but I heard the car start and he drove off. Jenna called 911."

"Jenna is a smart girl," Bella says.

"I filed a restraining order," Hannah adds. "I don't know if it'll be enough though. I can't go back there. I know I can be a bitch; I make him angry. But he hit my daughter. I won't go back."

Bella just nods. That is, unfortunately, often what it takes to make a woman stay away -- a threat to her children.

"Can you call Esme?" Hannah asks.

Bella smiles at her. "I already did. She'll be over as soon as she can be."

Hannah nods and, bending a little, crosses her good arm over her chest, not looking at Bella. She just rocks back and forth and smokes. Bella leaves her there to collect herself, going out to see how Martha is getting the kids settled in. Half an hour later, Esme arrives, having braved a brief moment of cloud cover to run from the car to the porch. She and Hannah sequester themselves upstairs to talk and Martha pulls Bella aside to ask questions. "Yes," Bella says, "she was here before but went back to him."

"So many do." Martha sighs, then tilts her head and eyes Bella. "The location of this house is secure? You don't need the likes of that man showing up here."

"It's secure. The staff knows, of course, and the police, plus the donors, but Alice's shop doubles as our mailing address and business office." Then Bella asks, "Would you be willing to talk to Hannah later? The reason she went back last time is that her family pressured her to be a good wife and her husband swore he'd 'got right with God.'"

Martha sighs again. "He can get himself right with God by getting himself to therapy."

"That's what Rose and I told her, but it might mean more coming from a preacher."

"I'll see what I can do."

Martha is as good as her word. She finds a way to speak with Hannah that evening, although Esme remains with her, unwilling to let the younger woman out of her sight that first day. "Your friend's a little invested," Martha says to Bella later. They're back at Rosalie's house although, again, Rose isn't home. She's at her office preparing papers for orders to be delivered to a judge tomorrow to sign.

"I know," Bella says. "I've talked to her about it. I'm not sure it got through, though. Ann's soft-hearted."

Martha shrugs. "Sometimes you gotta get burned to learn."

"She already was burned when Hannah left the first time."

"It usually takes more than once. She seems like a sweet woman, your Ann -- though Hannah kept calling her Esther."

Esther? Martha's hearing must be going, but Bella doesn't correct her, just says, "That's her other name," then changes the subject. "So what would you like to do tomorrow? I'll need to go into the shelter in the morning, but I can take off after lunch."

They discuss the coming day and Bella is glad they both had something to occupy them on this day after all. It's late when she goes to bed and she takes one of the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her after Mark's death. She doesn't want to lie awake tonight, tossing and turning, nor does she want to dream. As she prepares for bed, she pauses by her jewelry case and looks down at her left hand. Earlier, she'd insisted on not removing it until tomorrow, but finds she is ready tonight. Opening the case lid, she pulls off the gold band, sliding it into one of the ring slots. There is no drama in it. The heavens don't open nor does lightning strike. She closes the lid and finishes her evening hygiene. In the morning, there is no comment on her ringless finger. There is, however, a single white rose on her desk at the shelter. She knows who left it. She hasn't heard from him since Monday afternoon -- not even an email or text message -- and there is no note attached to the rose, but she doesn't need one to know it's from him. She picks up the small vase with her blank left hand.

The rest of Martha's visit passes without real incident, and Bella is glad of that. As per Alice's instructions, they don't get to Dawes College until afternoon and don't run into Lorraine. They meet with Jeff Simmons, Mark's old advisor, and Jimmy DeSanti, who's helping to edit Mark's last two articles, then they drop by Alice's shop on the way home. Martha seems charmed by Alice, but most people are when Alice wants them to be. Alice exclaims over the beautiful African caftan Martha is wearing, which leads into a discussion of weaving, embroidery and women's textile art. Alice gets an address for World Ark, a wholesale company that distributes handmade crafts from around the globe, in case she'd like to stock more than things locally made. Given the way she's eying Martha's clothes, Bella suspects she will. While they talk, Bella finds herself idly wondering if there are vampires in Africa (surely so), whether Carlisle has met any, and whether their bloodless brown skin looks gray.

And that brings to mind Mark's face while he'd lain in the morgue. Suddenly she is bawling in Alice's back room while Martha rocks her and Alice runs upstairs to fetch bottled water she keeps in her otherwise near-empty fridge. Bella can't even explain to Martha what set her off, and it reminds her all over again of the complications her friendship with the Cullens will bring.

The next morning, Martha departs for Jacksonville after breakfast, eliciting a promise from Bella that she'll be down at Thanksgiving. Holidays are for family, which means Martha and Renee, not Rose and Emmett -- although Emmett seems unsurprised by this development. He and Jasper return from hunting around ten that morning, their eyes bright gold and their step peppy. Jasper drops off Emmett at the shelter so he can put back up one of the towel racks a kid accidentally tore down by hanging on it, 'like a monkey.' When he's finished, he stops in her office to put away his drill and hear about Martha's visit. "You wouldn't have a lot of fun with us," he says when she mentions Thanksgiving. "We don't cook our turkeys."

Bella sips tea and smiles at the mental image of Emmett crashing through the underbrush after a wild turkey. "I wouldn't think birds would be worth the effort."

"They aren't. Personally, I prefer ham for Thanksgiving, although finding wild razorbacks ain't exactly easy either."

"Razorbacks are wild pigs?"

"Well they're descendants of farm pigs that broke out, but they're feral now, yeah. Mean suckers. Makes 'em sorta fun, truth be told."

Bella has to laugh, but is glad her vampires feel comfortable enough discussing their eating habits with her -- or at least Emmett does. Edward is more fastidious. "How many deer did you and Jasper catch?"

"Only two each, although I got me a nice five-point buck. We do try to obey the quota limits. To a point. I even have a hunting license." Fishing in his back pocket, he extracts his billfold and pulls out the paper license for her to see. This cracks her up and she laughs so hard she can barely breathe. Emmett grins fiercely, then puts away the license. In a casual voice, he says, "I see you took your ring off."

Bella immediately sobers. "It was time."

"Not a criticism. Just an observation." After only a breath, he adds, "Edward's coming by the house tonight. He called me earlier; he's got the weekend free for a change. He's pissed though that me and Jasper got to go hunting while he was stuck down in the city. I'll probably take him out after you're asleep."

"Maybe he'll find a mountain lion."

"Nah. Not around here. They're gone in the East 'cept maybe a handful up in the Blue Ridge, and even if we did spot one, he wouldn't kill it. We pay attention to what's on the Endangered Species list. This time of year, Edward clears out the deer down Atlanta-way so they cause fewer accidents. We'll be after more tonight, or maybe coyotes. I hear they're getting local ranchers' smaller livestock."

Bella doesn't immediately reply, mulling over what Emmett's told her. Her vampires play by the rules even when they don't have to, and in more ways than just eschewing human blood. Edward might like mountain lion but won't hunt them where they survive only in small populations. Emmett -- and no doubt Jasper too -- bought hunting licenses and obey quota limits. They are responsible citizens. It is more prosaic than alluringly dangerous, but she's proud of them -- which is probably a bit condescending. She can't help it, though, and finds herself smiling as she finishes her tea.

"Edward will be glad to see you," Emmett essays carefully.

Bella's eyes dart to her office window. "I'll be glad to see him too."

* * *

**Notes:** World Ark isn't a real business; I just needed a name. A picture of Martha's caftan is on my profile page at ff-net. As for Edward and mountain lion, given some fanfic, you'd think they were a dime a dozen all over North America! Actually, they're pretty rare in many areas, particularly east of the Mississippi. No matter how much the Cullens like predators, I really can't see them going after endangered animals. They're more likely to pay attention to what the local fish and game commissions say is over-populated. In the fall, deer become a nuisance near urban areas because they're mating and male deer especially are looking for does, not cars. They'll dash right in front of you and a deer can total a car (and severely injure if not kill a driver). There is also a huge problem with coyotes in Georgia. They're no longer just a western predator.

In addition, I find it unrealistic that a vampire would consume a half dozen animals on each hunt. The human stomach just isn't that big, and even if vampires are different internally, our bodies hold only about 6 quarts of blood -- and I don't think vampire bodies would hold a lot more. A single 200-pound buck has more blood volume than the average human male. One deer at a time is plenty even if we assume they spill some blood or don't drain it all.

**All signed reviews are always replied to. Thanks for all commentary!**


	38. Chapter 38

**Part Summary:** The ring is off her hand and Edward must face things he's been avoiding. There is an opossum involved. Yes, really.

* * *

"You and your ladyfriend break up?"

Annoyed and surprised both, Edward looks up into the light blue eyes of Chip Clayton. "What?"

"Your cell isn't glued to your ear lately, nor are you texting all through your break."

Glaring, Edward says, "I do not text all through my breaks."

"I call bull!" Braxton sits down at the cafeteria table with them. Both the other residents have lunch trays but Edward nurses coffee for show. "Speedy Thumbs is you."

"Fuck off," Edward says almost cheerfully. If he avoids profanity much of the time, he knows his fellows find it odd so he tries to update his speech patterns now and then. Braxton laughs, mostly a good natured sort, but Clayton's smile is a little too bright. He might pretend to tease but he'd like it if Edward has suffered a setback in his private life. He's petty that way. "Her former mother-in-law is in town and they're visiting," Edward explains. He could have just said she had company and let it go, but he has a point to make.

"_Former mother-in-law_?" Clayton leaps on that as Edward had known he would.

"She's a widow, asshat; her husband died last year. And we're just friends. I've told you that."

Braxton snorts around a bite of pasta salad but doesn't otherwise comment, veering off instead on a different topic to which Edward only half listens, his mind wandering. It's finally Friday and he'll see Bella tonight. After a minute, he realizes he's jiggling his leg, just like a human.

On the way back to the neurology floor, Clayton manages to catch up to him. "So how long has it been?" he asks. "Since her husband died?"

"I told you a year. A year last Wednesday."

"Ah, so the anniversary is over and the mourning dress is off. You can make your move, buddy." Edward glares but Clayton doesn't back down. His eyes are shrewd. They take the stairwell because Clayton likes to cast himself as health-conscious. "She is pretty," he says, voice thoughtful. He'd seen her when she and Alice had come the day Edward had lost his first patient. "Although I'm not sure I'd be into a para. Sort of like nailing a dead fish."

No doubt the other man had counted on public space to protect him, but he forgot they're in the semi-privacy of a stairwell and Edward has him slammed into the concrete-block wall, white handrail digging into his back, before he quite realizes what happened. Edward's face is in his and Clayton appears -- finally -- to _get it_ . . . that Edward is not just his intellectual rival, but a _predator_. His whole body has begun to tremble and sweat breaks out on his forehead and upper lip. Edward grips him lightly, careful not to bruise. Intimidation is enough. "If you ever say anything like that again, I will break your neck, you cretin." Edward shoves him once more so that he loses his balance and must grab onto the rail to avoid falling as Edward pushes past, up the last flight and through the heavy fire door.

He ignores Clayton for the rest of the day, although he can hear the other resident's angry, fearful thoughts. Right now, Clayton can't decide which he feels more -- humiliated rage or nameless dread whenever Edward gets near. In retrospect, Edward is a little shamed. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that -- but nobody is allowed to insult Bella so within his hearing. Done with his shift at three, he flees the hospital, an entirely free weekend spread out before him. He's already out of the city headed north before the Friday afternoon rush hour hits its peak. Back on standard time, the sun is down before he reaches Helen. He goes by the shelter first because Esme called to ask for him. She wants him to check on Hannah's stitches and arm.

The shelter van is still parked out front when he pulls up so Bella must be around. It makes his stomach turn over, which is patently ridiculous for a vampire, but he still suffers anxiety and can catch Bella's unique scent as soon as Madison lets him in. He blocks the girl's usual mental stammering around him and heads for Bella's office. Madison isn't evil, just . . . _tedious_. He hates listening to her thoughts.

Bella's door is open and he can smell the lingering bite of Moroccan mint tea in the air as he slips inside. As always in her presence, there is the ease of mental quiet. Hearing his step, she looks up. The lamp on her desk catches in her brown hair and glitters in her eyes, and when she smiles, his unbeating heart lifts. "Esme said you'd drop by before going home."

"She wants me to look at Hannah."

Bella backs away from her desk, coming around the edge to roll out into the hallway. At the main stairwell, she shouts up. "Esme! Hannah! Dr. Masen is here!" There is an elevator that Esme installed, but most residents use the stairs. "How was your day?" Bella asks as they wait.

"Long," he admits, although it hadn't been any longer than usual. But even vampires can suffer from a redshift perspective when minutes stretch out like the expanding universe. He can hear feet on the stairs and the voice of Esme somewhere above, her words clear to his ears as she encourages Hannah. The girl is reluctant to see him, apparently.

Edward spends the next ten minutes checking the young woman in the shelter's small medical exam room. She's in good shape, considering, but a softness to her skin and hair and the surface thoughts he picks out of her head tell him why she might have been reluctant for shelter medical staff to examine her. Turning, he asks Esme and Bella to leave for a moment. They exchange glances with each other, then with Hannah. It's not that they don't trust him, but they're worried whether it will make Hannah nervous to be left alone with a male. Hannah, however, just drops her eyes and nods. She knows he's figured it out. When Esme and Bella are gone, he doesn't waste words. "How far along are you?"

"Not quite three months." She glances up, her face stiff with anticipation of a scolding at the foolishness of getting pregnant again when she and her husband can't afford the first three and are having marital problems. He wonders if she thought being pregnant would protect her from him? "The doctor in the ER said the fall didn't hurt him," she adds, hand ghosting over her abdomen in that protective gesture universal to all pregnant women.

"Babies are better insulated by the womb than common wisdom paints. Do you already have a obstetrician?"

"I guess the same one who delivered the first three, but right now, we got no insurance since Brady's got no job."

He eyes her. "Does your husband know?"

"No."

"Do you want him to?"

She doesn't answer immediately and he can sense the wash of indecision in her mind. Finally, she says only, "He'd insist I come back."

"Domestic battery is a felony criminal offense. There are hospital records of your injuries and your daughter witnessed him hitting you repeatedly. The law will be on your side." Yet Edward knows too many of these cases aren't that cut-and-dried, even if one would think they should be. The victim is blamed for her own victimization, and if Edward has seen inside too many minds to ever believe relationships such as Hannah and Brady's are black and white, there's still no excuse for someone stronger to hit someone weaker for anything less than self-defense. He would like to blame domestic violence on this mannerless society in which he is currently trapped, but knows better every time he looks at Esme. Nonetheless, he will not accept a loss of control as an excuse for violence against a woman. Control is Edward's god.

Hannah says nothing, but he can read her reluctance to press any charges she doesn't have to. She pities her husband, but also fears him, at least when he's been drinking. The same mental doubts roll off her now as had rolled off Chip Clayton earlier when he'd been within three feet of Edward after the incident in the stairwell. If Hannah isn't as emotionally fragile as some of the other women living here, she's learned terror of Brady. Her mind still replays the moment he half-shoved, half-tossed their daughter into a wall. That will haunt her a long time. Edward hopes it's long enough. "I'll see to a prescription for prenatal vitamins," he says after a span of silence, "and will contact your old obstetrician if you'll give me the name. Also, I'm going to start you on a program to help you quit smoking."

She is sullen. "I smoked with the other three, and my mama smoked with us. We're all just fine."

"You were not my patient for the first three," he says sharply to cut her off. He's writing scripts. "You will quit smoking. It's unhealthy." He bites his tongue before he can add, ". . . and unladylike."

She is still glaring, but doesn't contradict him. He thinks that if she can just be convinced not to go back to her husband again, she'll be all right. There is a fire in her, a strength that reminds him of Esme even while in personality she isn't much like Esme at all.

They talk a little more, and he convinces her to tell Esme the whole truth about her condition -- and Bella too -- then goes out into the foyer to wait. Squinting up at the iron-banded glass lamp overhead, he struggles to block out the musings of the shelter residents around him. They simmer with doubt, anxiety, fear . . . so many are so lost. It depresses him. Finally, Bella emerges. "Esme's going to stay with Hannah for a while," she says. She looks tired. It's now almost seven in the evening.

"Have you eaten?"

"Lunch."

"Let's go and get some dinner." Here at the shelter, he doesn't add 'for you.' Stepping forward, he opens the door for her. "Chinese take-out?"

She laughs at him. "Something with vegetables, Dr. Masen? Martha actually left a ton of left-overs at the house. She doesn't approve of my frozen-food diet either."

He follows her van back to Rose and Emmett's, then fetches food for her from the fridge, warming it while she settles in at the table. He pours her a glass of wine although she didn't ask for it, bringing it to her, then sits down to watch her eat when her dinner is ready. After a few bites, she stops to glare. "What?" he asks.

"You make me nervous, watching like that. Please don't tell me you _still_ find watching me eat interesting."

"I do."

"Even though -- by your own admission -- the smell and taste of human food is like 'eating dirt'?"

"Watching isn't eating." He doesn't tell her that he finds her eating to be very sensual as her lips wrap around her fork or her tongue licks her lips or her throat swallows. It makes him hungry for things that have nothing to do with food . . .

And that brings him up short, recalling Clayton's earlier comment. Immediately, he wipes it from his mind, but asks himself if he does so because it's insulting, or because he doesn't want to think about what Bella can and can't do now, sexually? It's a topic he's both investigated and avoided, keeping it firmly at an intellectual level. He could have pulled the answer he most wants to know directly out of Mark's head on more than one occasion, but steadfastly refused to go there. When he fantasizes about having sex with her (and he does), it's young Bella in his arms. But when he thinks about kissing her, it's his Bella now. He tries to tell himself he fantasizes about young Bella because she's the one with whom he engaged in heated make-out sessions and for whom he has ready fantasy material -- except that doesn't explain why he imagines kissing older Bella.

She's still watching him watch her. "You know," she says after a moment, "if you're going to watch me eat, you should let me watch _you_ eat."

He sits up abruptly and shakes his head. "You don't want to see that."

"How do you know?"

"Bella, it's . . . just no. It's dangerous for me to turn on the predator part of me in your presence."

Her eyebrow arches. "It's hard to have a friendship with somebody who insists on concealing parts of himself."

"I'm not concealing anything. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but that's not something you want to see. It's not safe."

"Edward, _Emmett_ is more honest with me about vampire eating habits than you are." She puts down her fork and folds her hands in front of her, leaning into the table. "You still treat me like you think I can't handle it, or don't get it. I can, and I do."

He stares at her, suddenly unable to speak. But it's not her admonition that's stolen his voice.

Her left arm is folded over her right, her left hand curled around her right elbow. There is no gold band on her left finger.

All his focus has narrowed to that ringless digit and he knows she must surely realize what he's staring at, but he can't tear his eyes away. How long has she not been wearing her wedding ring? He's been with her for a couple of hours now but just noticed? Yet he's been so used to seeing it, he's stopped noticing it -- partly on purpose. His eyes slide away, focusing deliberately elsewhere.

But she's not wearing it today, and somewhere inside him, a wall crumbles into dust.

He's suddenly terrified. And confused because he's terrified. And irritated at himself because he's confused. All these conflicting feelings swirl together in his chest like sloppy tie-dye.

She's not wearing her ring. Now what's he supposed to do? He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens his mouth, shuts it. He knows he looks like a beached fish. She cocks her head. "Yes?" He doesn't answer.

The wall inside that crumbled wasn't protecting her from him. It was protecting him from her. He suddenly understands that. Love is scary. It's easier engaged in at a distance -- all the more so after being alone for more than a century. He tried once before, but ran when it got hard. He retired from the battlefield and watched her for a decade without her being aware of it, just as he'd once watched her sleep. And however much he told himself he was eating his heart out over her, he knows that he _wanted_ it that way.

It was safer -- and not for her.

He let Mark have her not because he feared it would be racist to fight for her, or because Mark was better for her with his human love and mortal life. Oh, Edward was -- and still is -- racist; he works on it (and knowing Mark helped a lot), but his biases persist. Even so, his racism isn't the _real_ reason he let Mark have her. Here, now -- with the ring off and the barrier gone -- he can no longer pretend to himself. Nor did he leave her ten years ago for her own good, whatever he told his family and even himself.

He left her because he was scared. Love is risk, and risk is hard. Love means cutting himself open from throat to groin to let her see inside him, figuratively speaking anyway. He can tell himself he's a noble man, a gentleman, but he's a coward is what he is. Bella is right -- he's concealing. He always has been. He just found excuses to rationalize away his own cowardice.

Abruptly, his eyes snap back up to hers. She seems torn between annoyance and amusement and perhaps a bit of worry herself. "Do you really want to see me eat?" he blurts out.

Her other eyebrow joins the first. "I said I did."

He stands. It's jerky, not graceful. "Come outside then."

He walks to the front door and hears her moving behind him. He holds the door for her and they exit onto the porch. Emmett and Rose's house is set apart on a private drive, and if not on the Chattahoochee like the cabin, there are wooded areas all around. He's still not sure about this, but knows it's something he must do. He can't be real for her -- his whole self -- until he shows her this part of him. He's shown her other things, to be sure, but they're aspects of being a vampire that could be considered desirable -- his strength, his speed, his indestructibility. But to **drink blood** . . . that is the quintessential essence of vampirism -- the ugly part -- and he's concealed it. Even more, eating is a communal act for humans, and for vampires too. To refuse to eat with another is a refusal of community. A refusal of hospitality. A refusal of openness.

"Wait here," he says, and dashes away at vampire speed into the woods. At night in the dark, creatures that hide by day have come out. His prey needn't be big -- not a real meal. He and Emmett will hunt later. He is aware of the scent and sound of small, warm forest creatures. He won't choose one that's "cute and cuddly"; that might be pushing it. He settles on an opossum instead. Most humans don't find them appealing. Normally such a small animal wouldn't be worth his time, but now, he's up the tree in a moment to grab it by its naked tail. It hisses and thrashes and fights to free itself from his grip. Almost, he pities it, but the predator in him is alive now and it wants to feed.

He returns to Bella in seconds, still holding the opossum. Her eyes dart to it and her face is sad, but then she wipes away her sorrow and just nods. "I wasn't kidding about the 'safe' part of this," he tells her, then calls, "Emmett?" His voice isn't raised but he knows Emmett will hear. The hissing opossum is louder. Emmett comes to the front door, opening it. Golden light from inside halos him. "Bella wants -- needs -- to see." He holds up the opossum. "But, ah -- in case?"

Understanding, Emmett just nods and comes down the steps to stand beside Edward, not in Bella's line of sight but where he can grab Edward if need be. Through all of this, Edward's eyes haven't left Bella's. She waits calmly. "Go ahead," she says now. Her lips curl. "I'm not sure that will fill you up, though."

"It's a before-dinner snack," Emmett says, half laughing.

"Not sure I'd equate opossum to crackers and cheese," Bella replies.

And suddenly, Edward is laughing. The tension is broken, but pity for the frightened opossum takes over and he ends its misery quickly, snapping the neck and pulling it up to his mouth, teeth sinking in.

It taste bad. It tastes really bad. And if the animal has much more than a pint or two of blood, he'd be very surprised, but he's hungry and drains it quickly to minimize the taste -- like he'd used to swallow his mother's brussels sprouts almost without chewing. Bella watches without flinching, her eyes soft and grateful. She understands what she's being given. When he finishes, he almost spits in disgust, and is glad they're outside. Bella smells a hundred times sweeter than opossum and it's fortunate that the night breeze blows her scent away. His predator nature isn't entirely engaged -- he normally eats within moments of bringing down his prey and there's more of a chase to fire his instincts -- but her blood sings to him and for a moment, he **wants**. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. Emmett grips his upper arm; it's subtle but Edward nods in thanks. The touch grounded him and his control is back. Reaching down, Emmett snares the opossum's body out of Edward's grip, saying, "I'll get rid of this."

"Thanks."

Emmett is gone in a burst of speed. Hands in pockets, Edward approaches Bella. She smiles up at him. "Thank you." She holds up her hand, the ringless left. He catches it in his right and squeezes gently. He is still scared by the future, but his heart feels strangely full. They go back inside and talk late into the night until Bella is yawning. He bids her goodnight and meets Emmett out front for the real hunting. They race back towards the cabin where he changes clothes, then they prowl for deer. Emmett isn't hungry but Edward finds a fat doe, sweet from rich summer feeding.

Edward goes home after that and tries to read. It does him no good. He tries to play piano, but actually _misses_ notes. He never misses notes. He feels anxious, keyed up. If he were human, he'd call it an adrenaline high. Going outside, he runs. And runs. Unfortunately, he can't get tired so he quits.

He's reached Emmett and Rose's house anyway. It is very early morning, the sky just beginning to shade lighter in the east with a hint of a hint of dawn. This is the hour when everything sleeps except vampires. He slinks toward the house rear where Bella's room is located. The blinds are drawn over her sliding glass door but the window that faces the back lawn still has the curtains raised. He peers in, his vision just making out her form under the blankets. She lies on her back, one hand thrown above her head, the other limp at her side. It's the left hand, the one with no band holding her away from him. He watches, wondering if she's dreaming, but can't see if her eyes are moving beneath the lids and considers unlatching the doors to sneak in.

He refrains. He shouldn't be here at all. This is what he did before, watching her without her knowledge. It's creepy. He knows it's creepy. But it's safe. He can watch without revealing himself. She is beautiful, cheeks flushed from the warmth of her blankets. Despite being on her back, she doesn't snore. Leaning his head against the window frame, he lets his mind drift. He tries to imagine how life will be without the ring. Without barriers.

The window in the room just above is shoved abruptly opened and he jumps, starts to dart away but hears a hissed warning, "Don't you dare sneak off, Edward Anthony Masen!" Stopping, he looks up. Rose is glaring down. She doesn't speak aloud further, but he can hear her thoughts very clearly: _Go home or come inside. I thought you'd outgrown the Peeping Tom stage?_ The window is pulled down. It's not quite a slam.

He returns to the house and looks back through Bella's window, afraid the noise woke her, but she hasn't even moved. She must be inured to Emmett and Rose by now.

Go home or come inside. Go home or come inside.

A life without walls between them. Or windows. To watch and BE watched in turn. To be open. Can he do that after a hundred years? Carlisle did. Jasper did.

But they are better men than he. Turning, he flees back into the forest, pushing himself to his utmost limits. He feels something inside tearing and there is pain. But it's not physical.

He doesn't get even halfway back to the cabin before he stops dead, hands braced on his knees as he just breathes, staring down at forest loam. He feels tired in ways that have nothing to do with his exertion. What is he running from? He screws up his face and would weep if he could. The tearing inside is leaving a gaping hole.

Turning yet again, he races back. This time, he stops on the house's front porch, his hand on the door knob. He turns it.

The door is open.

* * *

**Notes:** So -- three parts in one week. Do you love me yet, ladies? Don't expect this next week! I'll be spending my spring break GRADING. But I have at least begun the next chapter (which is more Bella), and we'll get a little Alice soon.

*cough* Yes, Edward sometimes misses parallels between his own behavior and that of others even when you'd think it would be staring him in the face. He's not the most self-aware person, whatever he believes. But he does have a bit of a breakthrough here at the end.

Thank you for all the lovely comments, which I always answer, although I don't always answer replying PMs unless there's a specific question, as I was working on getting these 3 parts ready. Also feel free to drop by this story's thread in the Fanfic AU topic at Twilighted-net's forums if you have questions or want to see what other readers have said.


	39. Chapter 39

**Part Summary:** A (real) bear rug in front of a warm fire in cold December . . .

* * *

Ever since the night Edward ate an opossum in front of her, there has been a palpable change between them. As Bella mulls this over, she realizes how ridiculous it sounds. Their relationship pivoted on an opossum. She giggles just thinking about it.

She giggles a lot these days, sometimes for no apparent reason except that the air is crisp and the leaves are falling. This is weather for tea and warm cider, hearth fires and blankets on the bed at night. The holidays are coming but she doesn't mind. Last year was torture. This year, she lets Alice take her shopping for presents -- which is a different kind of torture, but as Jasper and Edward are forced to share it, she can't mind much.

The exact nature of her relationship with Edward remains indistinct, like something glimpsed in the distance through Georgia mountain fog. Is it a fox or a dog or a coyote? They touch easily, and laugh a lot, and sometimes their eyes meet and there is a _burst_ somewhere inside her like tinder catching. Sometimes they sit in Emmett and Rose's backyard on an autumn afternoon. She still likes watching him glisten in the sun, watching his muscles ripple in minor rainbows when he moves. One day in November not long before Thanksgiving, she asks him to take off his shirt. He can't feel the cold bite of the air. He stares at her for almost half a minute, then shrugs and does so, letting the light kiss his shoulders and chest and the planes of his belly, turning his skin to a river of dancing light. She thinks this must be how Moses felt upon seeing the Glory of God's backside -- because no mere human could bear the brilliance of the divine visage. "No one sees my face and lives." She wonders, irreverently, if she should ask Edward to turn around and drop his pants. Sparkle mooning. She can just imagine the look she'd get for that request.

He turns abruptly, putting his shirt on with his back to her, as if stung by sudden shyness. But he couldn't have heard what she was thinking. He must have read something in her grin. "I wasn't laughing at you," she tells him.

He glances over his shoulder. "I didn't assume you were. I just . . . " He doesn't finish the thought, merely turns, his shirt all buttoned as he tucks the tails back into his pants.

She spends Thanksgiving in Jacksonville, but warns her mother and Martha that she'll be staying in Helen for Christmas. "Our resident has her own family to visit, so I need to stay," she says. "It comes with running a shelter -- the buck stops on my desk." As a pastor whose holidays are always pre-committed, too, Martha understands, but Renee protests. "I won't be working there forever," Bella reminds her mother.

The real truth, though, is that she _wants_ to spend Christmas with the Cullens -- with Edward. He's working Thanksgiving so that he can get off either Christmas or New Years. They text a lot over the holidays and although Bella is careful around Martha, she isn't as much so around Renee, forgetting that her mother's air-headedness doesn't mean she can't read her daughter's moods.

"So who is that you keep messaging?" she asks Bella on Saturday night before Bella is to leave on Sunday.

Bella -- who's in the process or replying to one of Edward's more outrageous teases -- looks up sharply. "What?"

Renee nods at Bella's cell phone. "You're texting _someone_ on a fairly regular basis, and I doubt it's one of your girlfriends."

"Mom!" Yet even as the protest explodes out of her mouth, Bella thinks she sounds fifteen not twenty-eight. "It's not just one person. I've been texting with Anne, Maddy, Rose, and Alice. Shelter stuff." And that's all true. But it only accounts for about ten percent of her messaging.

"A woman doesn't smile like you are when she's talking business or to girlfriends. You're talking to a _man_. Don't try to pull the wool over your old mother's eyes. And it's perfectly all right, you know." Grinning abruptly, Renee scoots to the edge of her chair at the kitchen table where they're having a glass of brandy before bed. "Tell me all about him!"

Now Renee is the one who sounds fifteen. Bella resists rolling her eyes. "Mom. Seriously. I was laughing at something _Alice_ said." It's a bald-faced lie, but she just isn't ready to talk to anybody yet about Edward.

Renee appears almost disappointed, either because she knows Bella in fibbing, or because there's no guy to gossip about after all. "You know, honey, you _are_ allowed to date again. You don't have to mourn Mark forever. _He_ wouldn't want that."

"I know, Mom," Bella says, but her phone is vibrating and she looks down. Edward, of course. She tries to keep the smile off her face -- suspects she's not succeeding if her mother's expression is any indication. Quickly, she texts back: **l8r U talk 2 much - getting grilled. GGN** Gotta go now.

**Sry** he replies. Then adds, **MUM, T2YL.** Miss you much, talk to you later.

She closes her phone and gives her mother what she hopes is a disarming smile. Renee just sighs.

Monday morning, when she gets back to work, there are flowers on her desk. Sunflowers and chrysanthemums in Thanksgiving colors, and a note: _Had to work last night; see you tonight? Pick you up after work at Rose and Em's._

No signature, but it wasn't as if she didn't know that elegant handwriting. Maddy enters her office for the weekend report before heading off to her morning classes. She eyes the flowers as she curls up in the seat by Bella's desk, chin on her knees. "I wish my fiancé still remembered to send _me_ flowers. Men are always more attentive when they start dating you." She sighs with pretend drama and grins. It's an offer of female solidarity, not fishing, but her words still make Bella freeze.

Dating?

Are she and Edward . . . _dating_? It's hardly the first time he's left little presents for her, or picked her up after work to take her to dinner, or to a coffee shop, or back to his cabin where they sit on the back porch watching the river, and sometimes he plays piano for her. They've never made any effort to define these outings, however.

Dating.

Bella thinks about Renee's nosiness again and reaches out to touch a bright yellow petal of the big sunflower in the center. Dating.

Yes. Yes, she supposes that -- if she's perfectly honest -- she and Edward are seeing each other. What else would one call it? 'Friendship' is deceptive. It had been friendship. It isn't now. It hasn't been for a couple of months.

When Rose drops by the shelter briefly that afternoon, Bella calls her into her office and asks, bluntly, "Does the family think I'm dating Edward?"

One of Rose's perfectly plucked brows lifts. "And you're asking me this . . . why?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"The family isn't putting any label on it -- not until the two of you do."

"But that's what they're thinking."

Rose just rolls her eyes and opens the office door to flee.

Three times that evening, Bella tries to ask Edward but the words never make it out of her mouth. He's working the next evening, and the one after that, but he has all Thursday off and offers to drive her to Atlanta to Emory's library to pick up some books she ordered through interlibrary loan. When it comes to work on her dissertation, he is attentive and encouraging, and regularly reminds Rose that Bella has a degree to finish when Rose forgets and assumes Bella can spend as much time on the shelter project as Rose does.

It is a productive four hours in the library, skimming books with occasional photocopying. Edward fetches material from shelves for her, reading when she's otherwise occupied. He slouches in his seat, and his face is taken by small frowns and flickers of an eyebrow, or pursed lips when something on the page interests him. At one point he pauses to look up at her, smiling a little self-consciously. "Why are you staring at me?"

"It's interesting, watching you read." Or interesting, just watching him.

"Okay." He drops his eyes back to his book but she thinks that if he could blush, he would be.

He works the next two days and she has work of her own, but they both reserve Sunday afternoon for time out together. The Helen streets are busy with early Christmas shoppers. They don't shop, just people-watch. After, they return to Rosalie and Emmett's and build a fire in the small upstairs den, then settle down on the big (real) bear rug in front of it. Bella tries not to think about either the bear it had once covered or what Rose and Emmett might have done on it since. Edward lifts her out of her chair to set her down there. It's nice, sometimes, to be free of her metal prison although she must use her hands to support herself. He lays his head in her lap. They don't say much, just listen to the fire crackle and pop. She can't feel the heat on her socked toes stretched out before her, but when she shifts her weight to free a hand and wipe hair off his brow, she can feel how one side of his face is much warmer, almost like living skin. She runs fingertips down his cheek and hears what sounds almost like a _purr_. It makes her laugh. "Comfortable?" she teases.

"Very. You're soft."

"I'm fat, Edward, of course I'm soft."

One eye pops open. It's the color of old gold. "You are not!"

"Yes, actually, I'm a good twenty pounds over my ideal weight."

His eyes close. "That's not fat. That's normal. American women these days look underfed. When I was young, we preferred women with some flesh."

"Meaning you liked them pudgy back then."

"It _means_ I liked -- and still prefer -- a woman who doesn't look like she might blow away in a strong wind. You're not fat."

She doesn't argue further, just continues to stroke his cheekbone, jaw, and hair. His eyes remain shut, his breathing regular. Firelight makes his too-pale skin appear flushed and she traces the line of light along the bridge of his aquiline nose. It makes him smile and her fingers dance over his lips, gone almost before she can register their cool smoothness. He turns his head, eyes open again to study her face, studying him. They still don't speak, but not from peaceful calm. Tension bubbles in the silence, and in the pit of her stomach; almost, she forgets to breathe. He still has that effect on her, and part of her just wants to lean over and kiss him (even if she'd probably lose her precarious balance and fall on him). He doesn't make a move -- his body still as only a vampire's can be. Her hand moves of its own accord, back to his lips, forefinger ghosting over the plush bottom one. Her eyes are on his mouth as he puckers to kiss her finger. This is no half-playful blown kiss like the one she'd given him over the top of his piano two-and-a-half months ago.

Yet the tension is too thick to last, and they're not ready for that final leap. She drops her hand back to the rug, adjusting her posture. His eyes close once more, his face turned in towards her body. In fact, if she didn't know it impossible, she'd believe him asleep. "What are you thinking about?" she asks after a moment.

"Not thinking at all," he replies. "Just enjoying the quiet inside my head for a change. It's a rare thing."

"Ah." She's not sure where Emmett and Rose went, but they were gone when she and Edward first arrived and haven't returned. All the neighbors' houses are a good mile away in any radius. "Neighbors not home?" she asks. She'd thought his range a little further than just a mile.

"Mostly. The rest are background noise. It's liking hearing people talking two yards away; I have to concentrate."

"Being with me must be a tremendous relief." She thinks her silent mind is, in fact, a large part of his initial interest.

He cracks an eye and says, "You frustrate me no end, actually. I wish I _did_ know what you were thinking."

"No, I don't think you really do," she tells him. Her tone is light, but she means it. "If you could've read my mind, I wouldn't have interested you at all back in Forks."

"You were different from the others."

"I was less different than you think -- or than I thought then. Teenagers always believe they're different from everybody else -- 'weird,' unique. They prize it and hate it, and do their best to fit in or bask in being rebels just to rebel. I wasn't any different." Her smile is gentle. "Add to that I smelled mouth-watering and you couldn't read my mind. You had to work for it. I kept you from boredom."

His eyebrow shoots up. "You think that's all it was? I was bored and had to work to figure you out?" He sounds half-playful, but she suspects he's concealing offense. "You don't believe I might actually _like_ you?"

She smiles at him. "At first, yes, I think that is all it was."

"And now?" He sits up abruptly, his face hovering only inches from hers. She feels his breath; it steals her thoughts, and her own breath hitches.

"We've known each other longer now -- over a year this time. We were together barely six months before you left."

"Oh, I've been watching you for longer than just a year. I know you very well, Bella. And I like what I know."

"I thought you said you weren't stalking me all those years?" But she is not -- oddly -- angry.

"I didn't. Watching isn't stalking."

"Watching without the other person knowing -- "

"-- still isn't necessarily stalking. I was careful to give you your privacy." Reaching up, he traces her cheekbone. It sends shivers through her, but despite his proximity, her brain has switched back on and in her head, she makes several connections that she never quite made before.

For Edward -- forced to overhear the minds of others whether or not he wants to -- it must be difficult to make a distinction between appropriate and inappropriate boundaries. His entire life as a vampire has been spent mentally overhearing others. She knows he finds this both useful and irritating, but for the first time, she also recognizes it must radically redefine how he understands privacy -- like a sighted person in a room full of the blind. She effectively turned out the lights on him, left him floundering in the dark where she had the advantage.

And that makes her think of other things she's not considered, either. What must he have been privy to that he didn't _want_ to be? He'd been only seventeen -- and not long that -- when he'd been turned. While he hadn't been a child, she knows he'd led the genteel life of a sheltered, upper middle-class boy, eager for the patriotic glories of war. But had he ever seen a dead person then, or violence of any kind? Did he have any idea beyond the theoretical of what horrid things people did to one another? It wasn't that such ugliness hadn't existed, but that the _world_ he'd moved in had been innocent compared to the one in which she'd grown up, and she suspects she knew far more of society's underbelly when she'd been seventeen than he had at that age.

Abruptly, she shifts her weight and lifts her freed hand again to touch his cheek as he is touching hers. "It must have been horrible for you, when you first woke up as a vampire -- all those thoughts in your head. How did you keep from going crazy?"

The question freezes him; he even stops breathing. For a moment, she fears she's crossed some accidental line, but then he breathes out in a gust. "And _that's_ why I wish I could read your mind. You go from scolding me for watching you from a distance to questions about my first day as a vampire. I can't even guess the mental road you took."

She smiles but doesn't lower her hand; nor does he lower his. "I was just thinking about boundaries," she says. "It must be hard to figure out where they are when you not only read minds, but can't keep them out of your head -- which made me think about what it's like to hear everybody's thoughts when you don't want to. Then I tried to imagine how those first days must have been, having all that forced on you when you were so young. You must have overheard some shocking things."

He frowns slightly and withdraws from her, lowering his eyes. But not in shame. He looks defensive. "I wasn't a boy, Bella. In my day, seventeen was a man."

"I know. I just can't imagine what it would be like to have to overhear the awful things people do to and think about each other. Or even just to overhear hundreds of minds like that."

He shakes his head. "It's no different than being in a crowd with everybody talking. And at first, it wasn't hundreds -- only Carlisle's. He'd taken me out of Chicago. He made the hospital staff think I was dead and took me down to the morgue, then stole my 'body.' He knew I was dying but he had a few hours, so he got me out of the city where nobody could hear me scream during the Change." Bella winces at his matter-of-factness. She hadn't considered that, but should have. "We stayed away from people for over a year. He had money saved -- not like we do now, but plenty to live without him working. Our needs were small. So it was just the two of us.

"At first, between my newborn thirst and the mind-reading, I thought I was either dead and in hell or mad, but I figured it out soon enough -- understood I was hearing Carlisle's words _and_ thoughts. When I explained that to him, he was able to figure it out. I'm hardly the only vampire with gifts, and he'd known others who had . . . not the same ability, but similar enough. So we tested my limits and found I could hear minds further than I could smell people. It was useful for staying away from humans as a newborn. We eased back into society slowly, living on the edges of small towns where he worked as the doctor, making house calls. That's why we were in Wisconsin where he found Esme. It was almost ten years before I even attempted to visit a big city or spent any time where there were lots of minds."

He looks as if he might like to say more, and she'd like to ask more but isn't sure she should. Would that be invading _his_ privacy? It strikes her how much she really doesn't _know_ about his mind-reading. "Can you block it at all?" Such a simple, basic question, but she never asked before.

"I've learned to ignore it, the way you block out conversations around you when you're trying to concentrate. After you've lived a few decades, most people's thoughts are sort of . . . repetitive." He frowns. "That probably sounds unkind, and sometimes I can be cynical, but there are common concerns that most human beings share and think about a lot."

"Nothing new under the sun?"

He smiles. "Something like that. Sometimes you do run into unique people." The smile widens. "I like the minds of artists -- whether painters or musicians or writers . . . they aren't thinking the same old things. They have _creative_ minds. It's nice. College campuses are interesting too. Some students are consumed by plans for parties, or relationships with each other, or the practicalities of future jobs -- the mundane. But a lot aren't. Their minds are full of new ideas. It's not the same crushing tedium. And hospitals . . . well, mortality pares people down to the essentials. You'd think, after a century on the planet, there wouldn't be much somebody half my age could teach me -- but there is. Dying people don't have time to waste. That's not something vampires understand well. When you can live forever, or at least for hundreds of years, life grows tedious. But when you see a mother who's only 36 with a brain tumor and all she wants is another few months with her husband and two-year-old daughter, you begin to really _understand_ what it means to _live_."

He looks up at her. "Life is _amazing_, an amazing gift. But so is death. It's like joy and sadness. If you're never sad, you don't know what it means to be happy. If you can't die, you forget what it means to be alive. I understand why Carlisle works in hospitals now. It's not just to pay society back for the lives our kind takes. It makes _us_ live even if we're not alive. It humanizes us."

This is, she thinks, the most honest conversation she's ever had with him -- more honest than the night she'd learned what he really was because this isn't about myth or the supernatural. It's about real emotion. She feels as if he's become transparent for her, giving her a glimpse inside in the same way he sees into others. To be human is what he wants more than anything. She's known that since Forks, but never really understood it -- understood _why_. Back then, she'd been too eager to join him in his immortal perfection, but just as on that afternoon at the Blacks' house back in September, she recognizes that immortality is its own kind of prison. He longs for life and death and everything that comes in between -- and he's laid that longing at her feet, like a present, or a prize. Fair return for his years of watching her, perhaps.

It melts the last rim of ice that encases her heart. "You are more _human_," she tells him, "than most people I know." He gives her a strange look and she smiles, shifting her weight again to reach out and cup his fire-warm cheek. "You are kind, and self-aware -- but sometimes you have a temper, and you're a bit arrogant and self-centered. I like that you're not perfect, Edward. You're also one of the smartest people I've ever met -- and not just because you have an eidetic memory. Most of all, you want to be _good_. That's admirable. It's not that we always are good that matters, but that we try to be -- want to be . . . struggle to be -- that's what counts. That's what makes you somebody worth knowing, and worth loving."

The last words slip out. She didn't intend to say them, but she didn't intend not to either. She doesn't regret them. His eyes are wide with shock. "I'm a monster, Bella. That hasn't changed."

She would laugh, except he's so _serious_. "Not any more than the rest of us. Sometimes you're a little melodramatic, but that's not a mortal sin."

"I'm not Catholic anyway." He says this less for humor than because he seems shell-shocked and floundering. "You think I'm worth loving?"

"Yes," she says, nodding her head once.

"But do you love me?" He blurts it out and those five words lie quivering between them, raw and glistening with the blood of his pride. A month ago, they would have been stillborn, but this thing between them has gestated long enough. She is ready at last.

Lowering her hand for balance, she bends towards him, hesitating with only an inch between their faces, their mouths. He holds very still -- just as he'd once asked her to do. "I was thinking there's something I want to try," she says playfully. Turning her head, she lets her lips brush his. It isn't a passionate kiss, more like the famed Christian Kiss of Peace -- salvatory . . . an offer of community and redemption. Hope for the future.

After a suspended moment, she pulls away enough to meet his astonished eyes.

"I do love you," she says.

* * *

**There. Finally. :-) It only took 14 months for them and 39 parts for me!  
**

**Thank you to all the people who comment. I try to reply to all signed reviews. And if you'd like to join the story discussion on our thread at Twilighted, there's a link in my profile that will take you there.**


	40. Chapter 40

**Part Summary:** Edward reacts to Bella's kiss.  
**Warning:** PLEASE NOTE THE RATING CHANGE! This story was originally rated /T/ so that it would show up on regular searches on ff-net (/M/ stories have to be specifically searched for). But it's always been an "adult" story in theme, not just subject, and rated that on Twilighted and Live Journal. This chapter finally earns it its /M/ rating, so I'm officially changing it.  
**Apology:** I'm so sorry this part took a week longer even than I expected. It's April, which means semester-end craziness. **Please see the end for a little more on posting schedules.**

* * *

He is a maelstrom. All his feelings rush inward and outward, swirling in a massive tempest, and before he can reconsider, he's crashed his mouth into hers again as he shoves her backwards until she loses her precarious balance and falls. His arms are right there, though, cushioning her skull and shoulder blades from slamming into the floor. That would hurt, fur rug or not. Otherwise, he's all over her as she'd once been unable to restrain herself with him. He's waited too long for this moment; it's everything he's daydreamed about for over a year -- for ten years really, if he's honest. She's _his_ again and there's something very primal and predatory in his response.

She doesn't seem upset. She's smiling under his kisses and her hands slide up and down his back, but they're gentle. This is different from younger Bella who'd reveled in her power over him even while being innocently unaware of just what sort of power it _was_. This Bella knows. She's a woman, not a girl, and she takes pity on him, neither pushing him further, nor pushing him away. She seems to enjoy just kissing, the unique intimacy of lips caressing lips and -- very, very carefully to avoid his sharp teeth -- tongue stroking tongue. He is hyperaware of everything -- her touch, her body soft and warm under his, the crackle of the fire, the feel of the bearskin, her scent, even the acid-lemon smell of furniture polish that Rosalie's maid uses. His breath is harsh with lust and there is a wet, slick sound from the meeting of their mouths. He presses himself between her legs, his groin pushing into her on instinct, but he knows she can't feel how hard he is inside his slacks. Part of him is relieved, part is simply saddened, and he's unkindly reminded of Chip Clayton's ugly words from weeks ago -- 'like nailing a dead fish.'

He pulls back, rolling off her gently until he is propped on his elbow. His breath comes roughly. She is watching him. The red firelight plays in her dark eyes and for a moment, he can almost imagine her like him, irises burgundy with blood. It's disturbing. He closes his own eyes to blot out the vision and her warm palm on his cheek re-grounds him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he whispers, eyes popping open again. He smiles at her. "Are you? I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't." Her smile is impish. She looks as if she might say more, but doesn't. Instead, she moves her hand to the back of his neck, tugging his face back down to hers. He complies readily.

They spend the next twenty minutes making out, lips and tongues drifting over every bit of exposed skin, sometimes in a languid pace, sometime more frenetic. She tastes of salt and natural body oils -- her own unique Bella-flavor. She snuggles closer and he grinds against her. He would like to climb inside and his body feels turned inside out like an old shirt. Pure heat races under his skin, a sensation he remembers well from before but doesn't really understand. His physiology shouldn't be able to experience this. Then again, he shouldn't be able to experience an erection either -- no blood to fill the corpus cavernosa -- but he quite obviously can and does. The doctor in him finds it curious. The man is too distracted to give it much thought beyond how sweet the friction of cotton feels on hypersensitive flesh. If he's not careful, he's going to come in his underpants like the seventeen-year-old his body still thinks it is.

Her own arousal is less urgent, but her body's reflex arc still responds when he pushes his groin into hers. If the communication pathways between her brain and body have been cut, her parasympathetic responses don't require the brain's input, and he can _smell_ her. She's wet for him, and it excites him further. Her mouth is very red, her cheeks and neck and upper chest lightly flushed, her lids half-lowered as she drags the flat of her tongue along the inside of his elbow where the sleeves of his button-down have been shoved up. He can see the tell-tale brown of her irises as she watches him, gauging his reaction. He is biting his lip to keep from groaning. She knows all his erogenous zones and is teaching him to appreciate them in a way far beyond what he's read in books or seen in the minds of others. This is body-knowledge -- non-transferable. Some of it they discovered ten years ago, but most they didn't. Their youthful explorations were hemmed in by his prudery and her ignorance, but older Bella knows just what she can make his body do, and he's no longer so reluctant to let her show him.

He vacillates between clinging to his precious control and wanting to surrender as he hovers above her. The muscles of his stomach flex as her hand drifts over the area just below his diaphragm. Even with fabric between, he responds to her like a Stradivarius to the bow and his mouth hangs open, gasping. She smiles up at him -- gentle, but knowing. Her palm drifts along his sternum, pausing over the place his heart would be hammering if it could still beat. Shifting her wrist, she lets her thumb brush his right nipple under cloth. Her guess is good and pleasure streaks through him. Inside his pants, his cock leaps.

He can't help it. He pushes down into her again, rocking, needing, panting, his mouth buried in her neck just above the jugular. The sweet, hot rush is _right_ there and he must lick skin. She should be terrified, but her arms have gone up around his rib cage, holding him closer to her. He is drunk on scent and lust, and isn't hiding his desire anymore. His body has set up a rhythm of thrusts that mimics intercourse as all his senses narrow to the heavy throb between his legs and the hypnotic aroma of that artery running not far beneath the thin muscles of her neck. His mouth floods with venom -- too much to swallow back. It drips on her skin, giving off a floral odor. Her eyes have rolled back in her head and she's stopped breathing, just as she'd used to do. In her chest, her heart races to speed blood through her body in preparation for fight or flight, but the body beneath him is paralyzed _in toto_, not just in part -- and completely his. He shakes with the power of it, and that terrible beast that sleeps in his chest rouses itself, black wings unfurling. He's not sure, however, if it's the vampire, or just the male libido.

He is so close. _So close._ Impending climax drags a low whine from him and his teeth graze her skin. All he would need to do is bite down, slice through the paper flesh that pretends to protect her fragile bones and sinew. She is _his_.

She makes a small noise, and he isn't sure if it's protest or assent but it doesn't matter. It is the reminder he needed and he is moving, jerking himself up and away before either his teeth snap shut or his nerves explode in orgasm. "I'm sorry, I'msorryI'msorry." She still appears dazed and he speaks at twice the normal human speed. _"I'llberightbackbutIhavetogetawayfromyou."_

He's moving again, down the stairs and out the front door into the cold winter night. He'd run to get himself under control but can't. He's in physical pain. Epididymal hypertension caused by a temporary fluid congestion in the testicles and prostate region with attendant muscle cramps and tenderness around the testes.

In short, he's suffering from blue balls.

He'd laugh, except it's not funny. It _hurts_. Without blood, he shouldn't be able to suffer vasocongestion, but somebody needs to tell that to his lower body. He slinks off to Rosalie's garage and finds a chair he can sit down on, thighs spread wide to lessen the pressure on phallus and scrotum. For a moment, he just breathes. In, out, in, out. But he's still seeing Bella's flushed face in his mind's eye and feeling the soft pillows of her breasts against his chest. Her sex pheromones are all over his clothes. Deep breathing only fills his lungs with them further, it doesn't clear his head. His lower body aches. It's going to take a while to come down from this, but he left her lying on the floor, her wheelchair pushed well off to the side with no immediate means to get up. He can't leave her alone long. He's not even sure she understood what he said right before he left.

"Shit," he mutters, and runs a hand over his face.

Of three things about Bella, he is absolutely positive. First, he wants to eat her; second, he wants to fuck her; and third, he would cheerfully lay down his (immortal) life for her. Only one of those is repeatable in polite company. The boy inside him, born at the dawn of the twentieth century, thinks a bit of physical suffering only proper penance for engaging in such shockingly inappropriate behavior with his sweetheart. But the man living through the dawn of the twenty-first knows the era of chaperones and appointments for conversation over tea with the hope of a chaste kiss on the cheek is long past. He insults her if he treats her like a woman of his time. In any case, he needs to get back in there as quickly as possible, which means ridding himself of his little problem.

Mind made up, he lets still-shaking fingers move to the zipper on his dress slacks while the heel of his other hand moves up and down over the bulge of his erection. The pain doesn't go away but the further hardening of the organ eases things, and in the next moment he's free of his pants, sticking up through the opening in his briefs. The air is cold and so is his hand but his prick is no warmer so it's not really a shock. His hand moves up and down, up and down rapidly and he arches against the hard-wood chair, legs extended and splayed, hips lifting and mouth open, head dropped back. With his free hand he rubs his chest, fingers seeking the sparks of pleasure that come from teasing his nipples. He is panting, his arousal spiking again to where it had been, all his muscles trembling as he hears the crack of wood. He worries that he'll ruin Rosalie's chair but masturbation doesn't usually result in breaking the furniture, even for vampires.

Both his hands move to his groin, one working himself backhanded, the other alternating between rolling his balls inside their sack or running the tips of his fingers around the corona of the glans. After a hundred years, he's quite good at this, although he's gone not just days or weeks without masturbating before, he's gone _years_ at a time. Vampire bodies are not human bodies, and while his can act like a teenager's, more often it's bloodlust that sends him around the bend. In fact, for vampires, feeding and sex go together -- and perhaps it really is (borrowed) blood making him swell in his own fist. He feeds regularly in order to work in the hospital and be around Bella without distress, but that makes him randy, and this is an entirely different sort of distress that has him whining, the muscles in his neck taunt and his teeth grinding as he reaches for that peak. He's not trying to draw it out or go slow. He just needs to _come_ so he can get his control back and go rescue her from the floor.

All his awareness has settled on the fleshy, demanding, throbbing body part in his hands. He tries to pretend it's Bella doing this for him although Bella's human hand could never move at the speed his own is. Then he's there. Climax hits him hard and he cries out, arching again, toes curling, eyes squeezing shut. He shudders through it, hand slowing as his prick contracts in a series of empty spasms.

After, he just sits for a moment, breathing through both mouth and nose and trying to think past the sex haze. At least there's nothing to clean up -- one advantage of being a vampire. He can't cry, he can't sweat, and he can't ejaculate. His body wastes no venom unnecessarily.

He checks his watch. That took . . . what, 38 seconds from start to finish? Of course, he was already quite worked up but it might be a record even for his vampire responses. At least he's no longer in pain, all his blood or venom or whatever it is back where it belongs. Only a slight headache remains as he tucks his now limp penis back inside his pants and zips up, standing. The chair appears to be in one piece too.

He hurries back to the den where he left Bella. She's still in the same position, prone on the bear rug, her head turned so she can look into the fire. Of course, it's been less than five minutes since he fled, but he feels guilty anyway. She hasn't heard him and he takes just a moment to look at her. She doesn't seem upset, and her heart beats at a normal pace. He lets his feet connect harder with the floor as he moves back into the room. She looks around and -- amazingly -- smiles at him, holding out a hand towards him in a gesture of invitation. He rejoins her on the rug, lying beside her again but without quite touching. "Sorry about that," he says, voice soft and a little thick yet.

She just smiles. "You needed a vampire moment?"

He laughs. "Yes." In a manner of speaking. More like a 'male moment,' but he's too bashful to explain that.

"Fair enough," she says. "If I get human moments, you get vampire moments. Although I'll admit I wasn't sure how long the vampire moment was going to take, so next time, let's not put the chair so far away."

Scooting in closer so their bodies finally touch again, he bends over to brush his lips against hers. "Your wish is my command. Although I did say I'd be right back."

"So that's what that noise was?" She's laughing under his mouth. "It sounded sort of like blablablablablah. Some of us don't have vampire ears."

And now he's laughing too. "Sorry."

Her arm snakes up around his neck to pull him into a firmer kiss, but it doesn't last. Her lips may be smiling but her eyes are serious. "We need to talk, Edward."

He looks down between them and smooths her silver necklace, which has slid to the side. It's a filigree snowflake, very pretty, a diamond (real or fake, he's not sure) glittering at its center. Her words have chilled him like the snow and he sets the pendant square between the arch of her clavicles. "Yes," he agrees after a moment.

"Want to sit me up?"

Nodding, he reaches beneath to lift her where she can balance on her hands. Then he moves away but she shifts to grip his wrist. "Stay close," she says. So he does. "Normally, this isn't a conversation to have right after the first kiss -- or first make-out session, I guess you'd call it." She is still smiling and he smiles back, but it's in reflex. He has no idea what's coming next. "Given what just happened," she goes on, "it's probably wise though. I remember you used to insist you could never lose control with me. I didn't really understand then."

His laugh is breathy and not from humor. "You took your life in your hands on more than one occasion," he agrees.

"No, I put my life in your hands, and you lived up to your promise to keep me safe. But looking back, I realize that wasn't kind to you." Her expression has grown serious again and she reaches up once more to draw her finger down his cheek. It's very gentle. "I need you to tell me what you can and can't do. But realistically, Edward. Don't underestimate yourself. Still, I'd prefer not to send you zipping out of the room at warp speed, either. And" -- she takes a breath -- "there are things you, um, need to know about me, too. What I can do, and what I can't."

He nods and she drops her hand, waiting. Apparently she means for him to go first. It takes him almost a full minute to force out the words past his prudery. "I don't really know what I can do," he confesses finally. "This is all new for me. We went, ah, rather further tonight than we ever did before. I didn't . . . I didn't bite you. But I . . . " He drags in a breath and closes his eyes. "I came very close. Closer than I like, or is safe." Instead of protesting as she might have once, she just nods and waits for him to continue. "I made you stop breathing too. I could hear your heart racing. I could've killed you and you wouldn't have tried to fight me off."

Her lips have curled up. "I'd forgotten how intoxicating you are. But -- and I need to point this out, Edward -- I did say 'stop' . . . and you stopped."

He blinks. So that's what her noise had been. He'd been too far gone to recognize the word, or she'd been too paralyzed to say it clearly. Yet the end result was the same. It had given him back to himself and he _had_ stopped. He isn't sure which he feels more at that recognition -- vindication that he'd mastered himself, or terror that he won't be able to next time. "I almost didn't," he says after a moment.

"But you did. This was one of our problems from before -- you never trusted yourself enough."

"And you trusted me too much."

Leaning forward on both hands, she places a soft kiss on his chin. "No, I pushed you when I shouldn't have. I'm sorry for that. But love doesn't know what 'trust _too_ much' means. You trust somebody, or you don't."

"Bella, I could _kill_ you!" He's annoyed. "You have no more sense of self-preservation now than you did then!"

She shakes her head. "I have absolutely no desire to die tonight, or tomorrow, or next week. But I have to trust you or this isn't going to work." A frown cuts her brows. "I've been relearning how to trust you this past year. You left me before. Part of me" -- she takes a deep breath -- "part of me is terrified that you'll do it again, that you'll cut out when the going gets tough."

"I won't," he interrupts.

She puts two fingers over his mouth. "You just told me I trusted you too much. It can only be too much if you're not worthy of being trusted in the first place. But like I said, in love, you either trust a person or you don't. Can I trust you? Are you going to stick around this time -- really stick around? All the way to the end?"

He finally gets it -- really gets it. She's not just asking about sexual activity, or whether he plans to be around tomorrow . . . she means does he plan to be around forever, or as much of it as she has a claim to? It shakes him to his foundation.

"That's what I meant," she adds after a moment, "when I said this isn't a conversation most couples have after just one evening."

"We're not exactly a normal couple," he points out.

She nods. "We've got history, and we've both got limitations. If we're going to make this work, we've got to navigate the shoals. And that means being really honest. Painfully honest. I can't -- " She breaks off and sucks in breath. "I can't see you walk away from me again. I can't do it, Edward. I lost you, then I lost Mark . . . and now you're back, but I can't go through it again. I don't -- "

He shuts her up by kissing her. Hard. He's got both his arms around her, pulling her in as tightly as he dares and kissing her mouth, cheeks, nose, forehead, eyelids, jawline -- everything he can reach. He may not be able to read her mind but he doesn't need to. "I followed you for ten years," he says between kisses. "I watched you at a distance. I loved you at a distance. I was alone a hundred years and I was terrified. I didn't know how to be one of two." He finally stops kissing her and just buries his nose in the hair behind her ear. He feels in no danger of biting her now. "I realized how scared I'd been the day I saw you'd taken your ring off. It was safe before, loving you at a distance. But then you took your ring off and you demanded that I let you see me eat. I didn't know if I could do that -- be _real_ with you like that."

"But you were," she says softly. Her hands have come up to rub his back and she's leaned her head into him.

"I was. I came back that night when you were asleep, too. I came back like I used to. It felt . . . safe. Watching from a distance. But Rose caught me and told me to go home or come inside." He can feel her arms tighten around him. "I ran, Bella. At first, I ran. Then I realized . . . I couldn't." His voice is breaking but he has to say this. "I came back. I came inside."

There is silence for a long space of breaths. "That's why you were there making me breakfast when I woke up that next day?"

"Yes."

"You stayed all night?"

"Yes."

"You watched me sleep?"

"No. I read a book in the living room until I heard you get up."

"Why didn't you watch me?"

"You wouldn't have known I was there. That didn't seem . . . right."

He feels her smiling against the side of his face. "You're learning. And you came back and waited for me."

"Yes."

"You won't leave me again?"

"No. Never." He no longer feels quite as desperate. She's still smiling against his skin and some of the tension has drained out of him. He rubs her back and lifts his head a little so he can see her face. Her eyes melt him. "I love you," he says simply -- because that's all he needs to say. He's sure that tomorrow there will be other things to say; much remains to be worked out between them when it comes to details. She still hasn't told him what her body can do. He has some idea as a result of his education but he craves the specifics of Bella-knowledge. Each person's nervous system is unique.

"I know you love me," she tells him now. "But do you _trust_ me?"

"Absolutely. Completely. I always have. It's myself I don't trust, Bella."

"I trust you -- absolutely and completely."

He begins to smile and, for a moment, can trust in her trust of him, even if he's not sure he deserves it. He _will_ deserve it. He'll make himself deserve it.

Their perfect romantic moment is ruined when Bella yawns abruptly. They break into laughter. "Sorry!"

"It's okay. I need my vampire moments. You have your human moments." His eyes dart to his watch. "It's after midnight and tomorrow's a work day."

"Don't remind me."

"Shall I help you back downstairs so you can go to bed?"

She yawns again, and nods, letting him lift her easily in his arms to carry her back to her chair. Laying her head on his shoulder, she looks up at him. Her face is full of light. It's not from the fire. "Would you like to stay with me tonight?"

Shocked, he stops in mid-step and looks down at her. "What?"

"Would you like to stay with me tonight? Watch me sleep?"

"Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"No. Although, I've never understood why me sleeping is such a fascinating activity. I'd think you'd be bored to tears."

He's grinning like a fool. "Watching you sleep is better than watching a Cubs game -- with the Cubs winning."

She bursts into giggles as he sets her in her chair. "At least I'm not making you wait till next year!" Settled, she unlocks the brakes and wheels for the door as he follows behind.

"Well, I got to first base tonight at least." He suspects he sounds a bit smug, and is glad she doesn't know what he was doing out in the garage earlier.

She eyes him over her shoulder. Something in her expression tells him that if she doesn't know exactly, she can _guess_. "You could've got further than first base if you'd tried, Dr. Masen."

"I'm a gentleman, Mrs. Jackson."

"And I'm a widow -- as you just noted -- not a blushing high school junior, even if you're still seventeen." She pauses right in the doorway so he can't escape past her and continues to eye him up as she adds, "Late teens is supposedly the male sexual peak. A woman's sexual peak is in her late twenties, early thirties. That works out quite well for me, I believe. Maybe next time, _I'll_ run the bases."

He chokes back a response, although a different part of him -- despite its earlier workout -- responds just fine. He knows he'd be as purple as a beet if he still had blood, and she might be right about seventeen, even for a vampire . . . at least with sufficient provocation.

She's entirely too provocative.

Turning, she wheels her chair to the top of the stairs, then waits for him to carry her down.

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**Thank you everybody for the wonderful comments! As of this posting, there are almost 1500! I try to answer them all, although sometimes I'm busy writing the next chapter so I get a little slow.  
**

**I want to forewarn that finals are coming up, and as a lot of you know, I teach, so I'll probably be pressed for time come late April and through at least mid-May. I think part 41 will be up "on schedule" (I try to post about once a week, usually on Fridays, if I can), but after that, it might get trickier.**

**Notes:** Yes, there are obvious differences between my theories and Stephenie's about vampire physiology and sex. Why? I find her own ideas internally inconsistent. If vamps don't sweat, cry, or have runny noses, they won't manufacture semen, either. The mucus membranes don't (need to) work. As noted here, even the fact the men can experience an erection makes no sense; in traditional vampire lore, they can't. They get sexual pleasure from feeding, but where's the fun in that? Hee. Plus, the fact they do have sex is too well-established . Still, no sparkly spunk, sorry. And thus, no Renesme (for those who were wondering ... and worrying).


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes:** Rose and Bella have a heart-to-heart.

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Bella doesn't see Edward again for four days. He's down in Atlanta, working and on call two of the three nights, so when he does stints like that, he stays in his apartment there. It doesn't make sense for him to waste gas driving back and forth. They have phones, and email, after all.

Secretly, Bella is glad of the breather. She thinks Edward might be a little too.

It isn't that she regrets anything they did Sunday, or would regret it if they'd gone further yet. She doesn't need to second-guess herself because she didn't feel hurried into anything. She just likes having time to mull over some questions she's been putting off because they seemed premature. There are other things to consider as well -- such as the fact she knows she was a mere breath away from dying. As a teen, that hadn't worried her -- foolishly -- but she's older now. She understands it's not proof of trust to disregard his very real limitations. She'd be angry if he did that to her. Not compensating at all is no more kind than coddling, and it would kill him if he accidentally killed her. She needs to know just what's reasonable to expect with him, and if she should probably talk to _him_ about it, she knows his tendency to exaggerate. Besides, he's in Atlanta. She's still in Helen facing the firing squad of his family's questions.

Although now _she's_ the one exaggerating. No one says anything to her, even Emmett, although Bella knows better than to assume they're not aware. A family with Alice is rarely taken by surprise, although Bella doubts Alice knew ahead of time because a definite decision is necessary for her to see a change in direction -- and Bella didn't know she was going to kiss Edward until she did so. Nonetheless, Alice probably had an inkling of possibility because Rose and Emmett have been suspiciously absent from their own house lately, and Rose is too territorial to leave just because Edward is around more often. For that matter, the hostility between Edward and Rose has been lighter of late, more a playful antagonism than real vitriol. Bella thinks they do actually care for each other even if they're a source of frequent mutual irritation. She feels similarly about her own mother.

Thursday afternoon Rose shows up in Bella's office not long before day's end, dressed to the nines in fire-engine red (or maybe that's Christmas red), and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. "One restraining order finally in place -- and for all the kids too, not just Hannah. She has full temporary custody for 180 days, or until the divorce hearing if we can get it scheduled soon enough."

"Oh, excellent!" Bella says, leaning back in her chair. One would think it shouldn't take almost two months to get a restraining order, but as it turns out, Hannah's husband's family has local connections. The first request for an order had been turned down, then the family was able to delay a second hearing over problems with the papers at the marshal's office. Up to this point, Hannah has had only an _ex parte_, or emergency, order, filed immediately after the assault, and it ran out when the first order was denied. "How did the actual hearing go?" Bella asks.

"Well, Brady never did cooperate with Family Services so we had to go in again with no prior written agreement, which meant the judge had to hear both sides right there, same as the first time. So both of them were in the courtroom together again." Rose makes a face, and while Bella mostly agrees that in a free society, the accused should have the right to face his accuser, in abuse cases, seeing the abuser is part of the intimidation process these men utilize. Fortunately Hannah's temper gives her strength. Unfortunately, her temper also gets her into trouble. "Aside from a couple swear words, Hannah behaved herself this time," Rose continues. "And the judge didn't dismiss her testimony that Brady was the one who put her _in_ the hospital -- unlike before."

If Bella were to work in family services a hundred years, she'll never get over how some people can invent the most insane tales, and others actually buy them. In the first hearing, the judge had dismissed Hannah's injuries because Brady hadn't been present when the cops had shown up, so the only testimony that he'd been the one to hurt her was hers and her daughter's affidavit. Brady had claimed she'd staged the whole thing to make him look bad, and when she'd let loose a string of curses to make a sailor blush, the judge had ordered her silenced and ruled in favor of Brady. "How anybody could believe she did that level of damage to herself, I don't follow. It's absurd."

"Oh, Judge Laney was bought off before it ever got to a hearing," Rose says. "Or rather, he's related by marriage to the Jones family and just needed an excuse, however farfetched. Fortunately this time, I was able to get the judge I wanted and Judge Ridge wasn't born or raised in the area, so she's less inclined to put up with his bullshit. Unfortunately, Hannah isn't liked, so even if the neighbors know Brady drinks and gets violent, they're not willing to testify for her against him. When he's sober, he's slick -- I'll give him that. A real charmer, whereas she's unpopular. People are inclined to think she made her bed and now she should lie in it."

"Hannah told me his family insists she got pregnant to trap him into marrying her right out of high school."

Rose shrugs with one shoulder. "Maybe she did. He doesn't have a job or money now, but his uncle owns one of the bed-and-breakfasts in town."

"Rose!"

"I'm being honest, Bella. Hannah's no angel."

"I never thought she was. But really -- "

"Really nothing. Girls do things like that. Don't whitewash people. Hannah's own mother is a mess -- married five times and lived with at least as many men before she _got saved_." Rose puts air quotes around the term. A northern-bred WASP, she has little patience for Southern evangelical Christianity. "Hannah wanted an escape and Brady looked pretty good to her at the time."

"You honestly think she tried to force him to marry her?"

"You can't _force_ somebody to marry you unless you've got a shotgun, but she told me herself that he was using her for sex because she put out. It wouldn't surprise me if she used him in turn. She went back to him the first time because her crazy mother told her it was her duty as a good Christian, but really, she went back because she thought she didn't have anywhere else to go -- this shelter not withstanding."

Bella shifts in the chair. She's uncomfortable because she suspects Rose may be right about Hannah's underhanded tactics, however well she understands their origin. "It doesn't matter whether she deserves our help," Bella says. "Domestic violence is never okay. There are lines in the sand."

Rose's eyebrows go up. "I agree. But I recognize that view of men. I grew up with it, in slightly different form." She crosses her legs. It's a defensive posture as well as exhibitionist. Rose still reacts with tactics she has learned influence men and intimidate women. Bella ignores them -- recognizing them as a sign of uncertainty. "My parents wanted me to 'marry up,' remember, and taught me to use what nature gave me to catch Royce. I may not have had sex with him -- good girls didn't, then -- but I certainly picked out clothes to let him window shop before purchase." Her smirk turns into a sneer. "That sort of thing backfires; it always backfires. When he and his friends were done with me that night" -- Rose usually talk about her rape in circumspect terms -- "he called me a cheap grifter and gold digger and said he was tired of me anyway." Her face is completely serious now. "He was drunk, to be sure, but drinking doesn't make people do or say things they aren't thinking at least some of the time. He wasn't marrying me for my connections, he was marrying me for an arm ornament. And I was marrying him for money and attention. That's how a lot of women are raised to think. I was. So was Hannah. We use beauty, or sex, to catch men. It may seem like a harmless phrase -- he's a real catch -- but it reflects a view that's not entirely healthy."

Bella breaks up laughing. "You sound like Lorraine!" Her advisor is often spouting feminist sociology theory, but Bella loves her for it.

Rose, who's more ideological than she pretends, just shrugs again. "I call it like I see it." She frowns. "I'm actually more concerned right now that when Brady saw Hannah, he figured out she's pregnant." Hannah didn't want Brady to know for fear that he'd try to delay the divorce hearing because Brady wants a son. "We dressed her up in larger sizes, not maternity clothes, to make it look like a weight gain, but I'm not sure it worked. She doesn't look fat, she looks pregnant, and Brady kept staring at her abdomen."

"Did he say anything to her?"

"No. He can't get within 500 feet of her now, but the courtroom was an exception. Still, we asked the judge to enforce a six-foot space injunction for the duration of the hearing, and she granted it. It kept him from approaching her before or after the proceedings, but an injunction can't stop him from staring at her. And he did -- through the whole damn hearing." Rose shudders. "He really creeps me out." For _Rose_ to admit somebody creeps her out is something.

"I thought you said he was charming?"

"When he wants to be -- and threatening when he wants to be, too. I wish I could let Jasper have an hour with him to give him a taste of his own medicine."

"At his age," Bella says, "it's too late for lessons like that to work."

"Maybe." Rose glances at her watch. "It's four-forty-eight. You want to go?"

"Sure. I'm done for the day anyway."

They head out for their respective vehicles. Rose's bright red Tesla looks misplaced in the driveway beside Bella's van. The shelter may not be run-down, but it's designed to look like just another farmhouse -- hardly the setting for a state-of-the-art hotrod. "I'll race you home," Rose offers, a glint in her eye.

"You're kidding, right?" Bella asks.

"Hey, I'll even give you a two-minute head start."

"Like that'll help."

"Chicken."

"Absolutely. Besides, I'm too tired to cook so I'm stopping for take-out on the way home."

Flipping her hair in a wordless reply, Rose opens her door to slide in and start the engine, then whips out of the driveway and shoots down the street. It makes Bella grin. Rose will be Rose.

Back at the house later, Emmett still hasn't returned from wherever he went today and Rose doesn't immediately disappear into her study. Instead, she sits with Bella while she eats, and tries to avoid making faces at Bella's Jimmy John's Turkey Tom. "So," Rose says after a few minutes of shooting the bull. "You and Edward?"

Ah, so that's why she's sitting here watching Bella eat. "Yes." Meeting Rose's eyes, she asks, "Are you okay with him being around more?" She doesn't ask if Rose is all right with the relationship shift; it's not Rose's decision.

Rose rolls her eyes. "I think I'll manage -- unless he makes you cry. Then it's a swift kick to the balls for him."

"His balls are at my fist level," Bella reminds her.

It takes Rose an instant, then she bursts out laughing. "You might break your hand, though!"

Bella shrugs and takes a bite. "Sacrifices," she says with her mouth full. It comes out garbled. This is, however, the opening she's been looking for. Swallowing her bite, she says, carefully, "Rose, can I ask some . . . not _personal_ questions, per se, but, ah, sort of personal?"

Rose appears baffled. "Questions about Edward?"

"Not exactly. Questions about vampires and sex."

Grinning, Rose sits back. "Ah."

"I'm not asking what you and Emmett do -- "

"Like you can't hear -- "

"I am _so_ not listening at night, Rose! Seriously. You guys are on the other side of the house anyway. The most I hear is, ah, occasional banging."

Rose is laughing now. Despite the fact she was born in 1915 and raised as a proper young lady, she's moved forward better than Edward. She is a Liberated Woman. But she's also not crass, so however much she might flaunt what nature gave her or make the occasional off-color joke, neither she nor Emmett kiss and tell. "What do you want to know?" Rose asks now when she can rein in her amusement.

"Differences," Bella says. "How vampire men differ from human men -- sexually speaking."

Rose's amusement vanishes abruptly. "I wouldn't know," she says. "My only experience before becoming . . . like this . . . was the night, ah . . . that night."

If Bella didn't mean to remind Rose, she recognizes too late how Rose would hear her question and wishes she could swallow the words. Yet Rose appears more thoughtful than irritated. "Healing took a long time. Not physically. But I was very angry for seventy years, essentially." She frowns. "If I'm honest, I think one reason Edward and I struck sparks from the beginning is that Carlisle turned me _for_ him, like I was some . . . prize at the fair. I know he didn't mean it that way, but after what happened to me, that's what it felt like. Edward was young, pretty, from a wealthy family -- he was Royce all over again. I know now he _wasn't_, but that took a long time to recognize. I didn't want him. I didn't want any man -- until Emmett. I still can't explain that. If we'd been human, we'd never have met, and if we had, I'd never have deigned to speak to him. I'd have been too conscious of our relative classes. But when I first saw him, watched him with his siblings -- before he was turned -- he attracted me because he was . . . _kind_. And gentle. I saw him not shoot a doe because she had a fawn, although it meant he went home without meat that day, and his family depended on hunting for meat." Bella just nods. That sounds like Emmett.

"After he'd been turned, he was always patient with me. He waited. He never rushed me. When I was ready, he took his time, and when I'd forget where I was, or who I was with, he'd remind me. We made love with the lights on so I wouldn't get lost in the night. It happened -- I was raped -- at night. But he never got angry about anything, never got impatient."

Rose isn't telling Bella what she wanted to know, but that's okay. They've never talked about Rose's horror beyond broad references and Bella is grateful that Rose feels able to confide in her.

"Emmett taught me to like sex and not resent my body, or fear having it admired. He calls me his Venus and pretends to worship." She lets out a spurt of surprisingly girly giggles. It's funny to see Rose giggle like that. "He makes it . . . _fun_, makes me feel like a person, not an object or prize. I love him more than anything, and I realized -- finally -- that if I hadn't become a vampire, I'd never have known him." She gives Bella weak smile. "I hate being a vampire, but it's worth it for Emmett."

"This may not be the life you ordered, but you learn to deal?" Bella asks softly.

Rose nods. "That's a funny way of putting it, but yes." Her eyes drop to Bella's chair. "You understand."

"I do. And it's the title of a book," Bella explains, "_This Is Not the Life I Ordered_. My mother gave it to me after the accident. She's into self-help books -- which I'm not -- but this one fit because some of the stories in it are _surreal_. For instance, one of the authors was shot while down in South America when she went on a fact-finding mission about that whole Jim Jones mess. She was a Congressman's staffer. Not exactly what happens to most people."

Rose's eyebrows go up. "Congressman Leo Ryan? I remember. They were ambushed on the tarmac by cult members a few hours before the rest of the cult committed mass suicide. The whole thing was horrible."

Bella nods, reminded again of how much the vampires have seen. Jim Jones had been dead almost a decade before Bella had been born. "Anyway, I could relate to the stories because I'd been feeling like I was the only one who'd ever experienced what I had, but I realized no matter how weird our own situation, the _feelings_ we have are the same. More to the point, nobody gets everything they expect in life. Sooner or later, it'll all go to hell in a handcart and we'll have to deal with the fallout."

"Probably." Rose makes a face. "But I was raised to expect success. It took me a while to realize life doesn't owe us anything." She shrugs. "I was young and spoilt.

"Anyway," she shifts in her seat, "if you don't mind my being nosey, how far have you and Edward, uh, taken things?"

It is a nosey question but Rose would need a general idea before she can be of much help. "Nothing beyond extended kissing," Bella confesses. "But he broke that off in the middle because . . . " She trails off and takes a breath, then blurts it out: "He almost bit me."

Rose seems neither surprised nor horrified, just nods. "You were more appealing as food than as a sex partner." It's blunt, but that's Rose. She may dislike being a vampire but she's less coy about the realities than Edward is -- which is one reason Bella wanted to talk to her. "I don't think we have the same drive that humans do anyway. In my day, good girls didn't talk about sex drives and I was barely aware of mine. Sex was what men wanted; babies were what women wanted. Even so, _feeding_ is a vampire's main drive. I have fairly good recall of my life as a human -- it's not perfect, but I remember a lot -- and I can't remember _hunger_ like I feel as a vampire. It's just . . . incredibly annoying!"

Bella grins -- she can't help it -- and Rose sticks out her tongue playfully. "It's true," Rose insists. "When we're really _hungry_ there's nothing like it. Emmett says it reminds him a little of being out all day with no water, working in the hay fields. Parched. You can't _think_ for the need of a drink. I never felt that as a human, but I know what it's like as a vampire. Sex . . . it's not so much of a need, even for the men. And _that's_ by _Emmett's_ admission. Trust me" -- her lips twitch -- "he didn't go without as a human. But he says he doesn't feel the same now except right after we eat. _Then_ our sex drive is strongest."

Rose appears thoughtful and Bella waits, letting her think it out. "I suspect that, for vampires, sex functions as a way to reinforce hunting in pairs. It's more efficient. We may not live in large groups often, but more vampires work in pairs or trios than hunt entirely alone. We don't need sex to reproduce, but it serves other functions, cementing emotional ties. Vampire men are less likely to play the field or get bored and look for a new, more exciting partner. As humans, men want to spread their DNA. But as vampires, they want to keep a reliable hunting partner."

Rose can be more analytical and perceptive than the rest of the family often credits her. "Evolution still rules," Bella says.

"Or at least Mother Nature," Rose agrees. "Since sex and feeding are tied together for us, a vampire who tries to have sex with a human is mixing his drives -- and the stronger drive isn't for sex."

"Your potential partner is also your potential dinner," Bella concludes.

Rose just nods. "Even if he's fed recently, in the heat of the moment that may not matter." Rose stops, opens her mouth, shuts it, then blurts out, "Bella, I don't want to seem _pushy_, and I'm sure Edward wouldn't like it, but it might be a good idea for the two of you to, ah, test the boundaries while I or Emmett are in the house. If something were to go badly wrong, and you could manage even the smallest sound -- we'd hear it. We could intervene and stop him from draining you." Her eyes are on Bella's as she goes on, "I -- we -- wouldn't be listening to be . . . prurient. Just . . . in case." Bella nods because she's not sure what to say. "And if something were to happen -- well, what would you want us to do?"

Confused, Bella asks, "What would I want you to do?"

"Would you rather one of us risk trying to suck out the venom -- which I can't guarantee we'd succeed at without killing you -- or would you rather let it take its natural course?"

"You mean do I want to become a vampire?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't want to _die_." That much, at least, is easy to answer. "I doubt most people do."

"But if there's no other option, would you prefer to risk dying, or become a vampire?" Rose's face is stony. "I wasn't given a choice, and I won't see that happen to you. I prefer to know in advance. Emmett and I will see to it that your decision is abided by, whatever Edward would argue, either for or against."

"I . . . don't know," Bella admits. When faced with either-or, it's not easy to choose. She's toyed with the idea of being turned, of course, just as she had as a teen, but no longer thinks the cost worth it, even if it meant she could walk again. Bella Swan Jackson would have to die. She'd be giving up her family -- that by birth and that by marriage -- as well as the degree she's worked so hard to earn. She'd be giving up her ability to have a normal life, and if she hadn't understood why Edward had wanted that for her before, she does now. There is great beauty in the very impermanence of her mortality. But Rose isn't talking about a voluntary choice, and should Edward lose control and bite her, even if Emmett and Rose stopped him from killing her, the venom would still be in her blood. Maybe Rose could suck it out the way Edward had ten years ago in Phoenix -- but that's no guarantee.

"I don't know," she says again. "If I died because of Edward's mistake . . . Well, I lost Mark and I know how much it hurts. But that wasn't . . . I didn't _cause_ it. If it had been _my_ error, an accident that _I_ caused . . . " She trails off and looks up at Rose. Tears burn her eyes. "How does anybody get over that? But the alternative . . . " She considers it. "I don't know. If I'd lived out a full life, I'd be okay with dying. But if it happened tomorrow and I was leaving Edward with guilt like that -- I just don't know." She cocks her head and picks at a limp end of caramelized onion on her forgotten sandwich. "Ask me again later." She pauses, then adds, "And thanks for asking at all, Rose."

Rose just nods. "Like I said -- I wasn't given a choice. You should be."

"At least it makes me think about how Edward and I are going to manage the future." Even if she doesn't have to 'die' to her present life, having Edward around permanently still introduces certain limitations. Her father can never know, which means no second marriage. And there's only so long she'll be able to stay in one place with her never-aging paramour; that could make teaching and tenure difficult, although she's never been certain academia is where she wants to end up. More to the point, aging gracefully is difficult enough without paraplegia as a complication. Does Edward really know what he's getting into? "It's still not the life I ordered," she says. Her smile is rueful. "But I guess I'll learn to deal."

However difficult having Edward in her life will be, _not_ having him in her life is no longer an acceptable alternative.

* * *

**Notes:** As we're getting to the end of the semester, expect some delay before the next chapter. I'm sad, too, because it's Carlisle's return. Let me know how you like the Rose-Bella heart-to-heart. I finally got to touch on some of the issues surrounding Rose's rape that must SURELY have affected her. A lot more could be said, but it's a start.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes:** Alice has a vision. Carlisle comes home. The first part of this takes place at roughly the same time as part 41. That'll probably be obvious, but just to prevent immediate confusion ...

And the roller-coaster begins . . . now. Strap in, kids.

* * *

It drops on her like a stone, without provocation.

Visions of Bella dead. Of Bella Changed. Of Bella's face, cold and stiff in a casket and Charlie shaking hands with mourners. Of Bella covered in blood and dragging herself on the ground, her face a white mask of pain and horror. Of Edward begging Emmett to destroy him because his life now has no meaning. Of Bella thrashing in the fiery agony of venom. Of Rosalie weeping and rocking tearlessly. Of Esme with a shotgun, trembling with fear, although why she'd have a gun or be afraid of anything a gun would threaten, Alice couldn't begin to guess.

Then it's over. Immediately Alice closes her (thankfully empty) shop to dash out the back and down the alley under cover of a December overcast sky, then races for the shelter. It's faster than driving.

Everything is fine. The shelter van sits in the drive and Alice's vampire hearing brings her the sound of Bella talking on the phone in her office, perfectly unharmed. It's a little after one and some of the shelter children are playing in the wide back yard despite the cold. Alice stays in the bordering forest. It would be hard to explain what she's doing, slinking around the grounds with no evidence of how she arrived (except on foot). Esme lounges under the gazebo with some of the mothers and Alice recalls that she's babysitting for Hannah while Hannah's in court today. Esme must have heard something, or smelled something, because she glances toward the tree line. Alice darts to the edge to wave, too fast for human eyes to spot, then disappears again. She doesn't want Esme nervous. The vision of Esme with a shotgun is fresh in her mind.

Whatever change caused the visions, catastrophe isn't happening today -- or at least, not right this minute. There could be several possible outcomes, too, it would seem. That's often how it is. The future explodes into many paths, the most likely becoming clearer only as further decisions are made. Yet in all current futures, Bella is either dead or one of them. It represents a major shift in the future.

Alice ponders this as she paces the perimeter of the shelter's land under cover of Georgia pines and winter-bare maples, reluctant to leave until she's worked through whatever it is she saw. She can't always call the visions at will, but she's learned how to empty her mind and let them come. Unfortunately, there's nothing more to see. Alice can't even guess what change has occurred to alter Bella's future. It isn't Bella and Edward's new relationship. Alice saw that coming a mile away even if the 'when' hadn't been fixed, and their status altered Sunday night. It's Thursday now, and Edward's in Atlanta anyway.

Well, he should be. Pulling out her cell, Alice calls him -- glad he can't read her mind over the phone. Getting his voicemail, she leaves a message. She needs to be certain he's still there and not headed back suddenly to be the cause of Bella's altered future. Less than a minute later, he returns her call. "I was scrubbing in for the OR. What is it?"

"Nothing much, just checking to be sure you haven't heard anything different about Carlisle's arrival tomorrow?"

"No," Edward replies, puzzled. "As far as I know, he got on the plane out of Kabul. Besides, wouldn't you know if he hadn't? Did you see something?"

"No, I was just checking." It's a lame excuse and Alice realizes as much, wincing.

"What are you not telling me?" His voice is thick with sudden concern.

"Huh? Nothing." She sighs and pouts although he can't see it; it makes acting easier. "I'm just _bored_, if you must know. No customers. How's your day?"

"Busy," he answers shortly. "Go and visit with Jasper, Alice. I've got to assist in surgery and now I've got to scrub in again. I'm turning off my phone; I'll talk to you tomorrow." He ends the call, and while he's irked at least he's no longer suspicious. Alice knows the quickest way to distract Edward is to annoy him. When his temper takes over, he stops thinking straight. Still, she'll have to be very careful around him tomorrow if she can't figure this out before then.

Perhaps whatever is to happen owes to Carlisle's return -- or rather, to a change in Carlisle's return? It's the only major thing commencing today that might affect Bella, although as Alice has learned, sometimes the choice or change isn't obvious. It could be as small as departing five minutes late tomorrow to pick up Carlisle -- but that would occur _tomorrow_, not today, and whatever changed, changed _today_. The best clue she has is the image of a blood-covered Bella dragging herself along the ground, but she saw only Bella's face and part of her body, not where she was -- except that it will happen in daylight and outside. It was dirt beneath her, not carpet or flooring.

An accident of some sort? An accident that would either kill her or require her transformation if one of the Cullens could reach her fast enough? That's what made Alice think of Carlisle's return; if he missed his flight out, it might result in a later arrival time, which might result in --

"Alice?"

Startled, Alice jumps a foot in the air (literally) and spins, dropping automatically to a crouch. But it's just Esme. She should have heard her approaching but was too deep in thought. Straightening, she runs a hand through her hair as Esme apologizes. "I didn't mean to frighten you. What are you doing here? What's happening?"

Alice isn't really ready to talk to anybody yet, but if she must choose, Esme or Jasper are best. Neither is the sort to fly off the handle. "I don't know," she says. "Shouldn't you be -- ?"

"Cara is watching them. It was getting cold so everybody went in for a snack. I said I had to run an errand, drove a little way down the road, parked the car, then came to find you." She makes a vague gesture. "Let's walk. Talk to me."

So they do, and Alice does. She tells Esme everything she's seen. Esme drapes an arm around her shoulders in a comforting manner. When Alice is finished, she says, "An accident does seem the most likely."

"That's what I think, except I don't usually see accidents until right before they occur. They're an _accident_, so they're unpredictable. That's why I ran over -- to be certain Bella wasn't going anywhere -- then called Edward to be sure he was still at work, not headed here to take her somewhere. I thought maybe Carlisle's flight changed, but he left on time, apparently."

"Yes, I haven't heard anything otherwise." Despite her obvious preoccupation, there's excitement in Esme's voice. She wants her husband home. "And Bella is riding to Atlanta with us in any case." The unspoken being that if Bella is with them, she's won't be harmed in something so mundane as an automobile accident. Their reflexes are simply too good. The closest was a near-miss of Emmett's about thirty years ago now.

"There's also that glimpse of you with a shotgun," Alice says.

Esme is frowning. "-- which makes no sense."

"No, it doesn't."

"I can only guess that humans are with me, so I have to keep up appearances."

Alice nods. "But the only thing beginning today is Carlisle's trip home and how could that involve you and a shotgun?" A new thought abruptly occurs to her and she glances sharply at Esme. "You didn't get any new clients at the shelter today, did you?" A violent husband with a pistol and a grudge . . . it wouldn't be the first time.

But Esme just shakes her head. "No. We haven't had a new client in two weeks."

"So much for that. And if everything did go as scheduled with Carlisle's departure, it can't have to do with him, either. His plans have been in place for months."

Esme pulls out her phone. "I'll message him to call me when his plane sits down in Ankara -- he probably will anyway, but I'll be sure nothing's changed. He's taking an overnight to London from there before crossing the Atlantic. With three plane changes, anything could happen."

Alice nods absently, trying to open herself to visions in case her conversation with Esme has changed things, but there's still nothing, just the confusing flashes. Finished with her message, Esme puts her phone away, saying, "We'll keep a close watch on Bella over the next few days."

"Don't mention any of this to Edward until I can see more. You know he'll go into overprotective mode, which will drive Bella insane and they'll fight. That much I _can_ see, and it doesn't even require the Sight."

Esme only nods.

When Alice gets back to the shop, she debates whether to tell Jasper, but he knows her too well and has the whole story out of her inside ten minutes. Then he shifts into scholarly analytical mode, or maybe it's military strategizing; they're much the same, really. Nobody in the family is better at the dispassionate analysis of tiny bits of data -- not even Carlisle or Edward, both of whom are too ruled by emotion (whether or not they want to admit it). Jasper has had to learn to shut out emotions or he'd drown in them, so he doesn't let them get in the way.

"I'm not sure we can rule out Edward as the cause of Bella's fatal injury," he says, "although that wouldn't account for the vision of Esme with a gun. That particular piece doesn't seem to fit easily with the rest." He frowns.

"Jasper, you know Edward wouldn't -- "

"No, we don't know that. He was begging Emmett to kill him. But Edward's melodramatic, too, and it might be grief driving him, not guilt. If I ever lost you -- "

"Don't even talk about it, Jazz."

"Be that as it may, maybe Esme is trying to protect Bella from somebody who wants to harm her -- apparently somebody human. The final outcome might depend on Esme being present. If she is, Bella lives -- or at least becomes a vampire. If she's not, Bella dies. Or perhaps Bella doesn't want to be changed. We should ask her what she'd want."

"I'm not telling her about this until I know more! That would be cruel."

"We don't have to tell her everything -- no sense scaring her with so little to go on -- but we should find out what she'd want, if push came to shove."

Alice nods. Jasper has a point. None of them were ever asked, but Bella could be.

"You can't do it," Jasper continues, "nor me. She's too sharp; she'd put two and two together and assume you saw something. And Edward shouldn't be told until we know more, either."

"Rose. I'll have Rose ask her."

His eyebrow shoots up. "Rose isn't exactly the queen of tact."

"That's why she needs to be the one to ask. Bella knows she _would_ ask something like that. And she's smoother than you think. She can steer the conversation in that direction. But I'm not sure Edward _or_ Rose would agree to change her even if that is what she wants. Neither of them like being a vampire."

"That was ten years ago. Rose is in a different place now, and Bella's older. I think Rose would respect her choice. As for Edward, if it were a matter of losing Bella _right now_ versus changing her? He'd change her."

"How can you be sure -- ?"

"Edward's not that selfless. If he gets her for a whole lifetime, he'd prepare himself to let her go. As you said, Edward never wanted to be a vampire and if he got fifty happy human years, he'd be content. But take Bella away from him before he's ready? He won't give her up -- especially not if she wants to be changed. Trust me. But we do need to find out what Bella wants. You may not be able to see exactly what's coming, but you've seen Bella's change as one possibility. If we can find out what she'd want, it might clear away some of the possible futures -- which might give you a clearer vision." He pauses, then asks, "Could she walk?"

"What?"

"If she's changed, could she walk?"

"I can't say; I haven't seen her changed since the accident because she never wanted to be. All I saw before -- even after Sunday -- was Bella old and happy with Edward. This time, I only saw Bella with red eyes, or in the throes of the Change. I didn't see if she was standing or sitting."

Jasper nods. "Edward doesn't think the change would heal her. I'm not so sure. I've seen lots of newborns and none had any sort of permanent, crippling injury like that. Never heard of one either. Trouble is, vampires typically choose to change only the exceptional in looks or talent or intellect -- or all of the above -- so they're unlikely to pick a disabled human in the first place and the fact I've never heard of a disabled vampire doesn't mean much. Maybe the change does heal everything, or maybe it's just so rare, I don't know about it." He frowns and appears thoughtful. "This is why a history of vampires needs to be written -- one not with Volturi patronage."

Despite the deadly serious subject, Alice can't resist smiling. "And you're just the vampire to write it, hon. Anyway, if Bella does want to be changed but doesn't heal, we can hunt for her."

"Of course. But it might make a difference to her decision."

Alice doesn't reply, just tries to search forward again, but nothing has changed since the last time she looked and she realizes it's unlikely to. Whatever's coming apparently isn't imminent.

Jasper has dashed downstairs to get his keys, then passes her on the way to the door. "I'll go and find Rose. I'd rather explain this to her in person than over the phone."

"She's at the courthouse," Alice says absently, mind still on her visions. "Hannah's trial is today."

"Thanks. I'll see you later; we should hunt tonight if I have to be in a crowded airport tomorrow."

At mid-afternoon the next day, they pick up Bella and Esme from the shelter on the way to the airport. Rose and Emmett will meet them there, as will Edward, who Alice hopes is too preoccupied to snoop mentally. Not that he has any real reason to be suspicious, and she's had long practice at submerging thoughts she doesn't want him to overhear.

The drive to Atlanta is blessedly uneventful; even traffic is mild. They're to meet Edward, Rose and Emmett by the atrium dinosaur, and Alice watches Edward's reunion with Bella, curious to see how public they're ready to be. Edward's whole face lights up when he spots them coming through the main doors, but he doesn't rush over to meet them. He just smiles. Bella smiles back and seems to forget anybody else is there, zipping towards him a little faster than normal. When she's perhaps ten feet away, Edward takes a few steps forward and Bella halts in front of him, looking up. Their eyes meet for a moment, as if taking each other's quiet measure.

Then Edward bends at the waist to give her a quick peck on the lips. Bella's chin lifts to meet his mouth halfway.

Alice is sorely tempted to break into applause -- but refrains.

Emmett doesn't.

Raising up, Edward turns to glare, but it's Bella who shoots him a bird. Everybody laughs, even Esme, as she, Alice and Jasper catch up. Alice can feel her whole body humming and Jasper slips an arm around her to hold her to earth. Despite the terrible visions of the future, in this moment, she feels only electric anticipation. "Soon," she whispers too low for any but Jasper to overhear. "Soon and we'll be complete."

Jasper glances down at his watch. "His plane should arrive in 47 minutes. Let's check the boards to be sure it's not delayed."

"It's not," Alice says, eyes momentarily unfocused. She's been so preoccupied with visions of Bella, she hasn't checked to see if Carlisle's plane is on time. "He already went through customs at JFK, so we won't have to wait for that."

The seven of them mill around near the main security check-point where Carlisle will emerge. Esme is almost preternaturally still as she waits, her hands gripped together in front of her. She wears white; Carlisle loves her in white. Emmett and Rose idly eye the displays in an airport shop for the Georgia Aquarium. Alice overhears him tell Rose, "We should get an aquarium for the house. It's not like fish have brains enough to be scared of us."

"Only if you're willing to clean it," Rose replies. "And they don't sell fish in there anyway."

"I know; I was just saying." He pauses, then goes on, "Carlisle needs a stuffed octopus."

"Carlisle does not need a stuffed octopus. You _want_ a stuffed octopus and you're using Carlisle as an excuse. Why not just get some stuffed animals for the kids at the shelter? You'll be bored of them by the time we get back to Helen anyway."

Alice can't help smiling. Rose has Emmett's number.

Edward and Bella are on the other side of the main terminal concourse; he's bought her a coffee from Seattle's Best and now they sit with fingers intertwined while she sips it. Alice watches while trying to look as if she isn't until Jasper pulls her into a bookstore. "Quit hovering. I can feel Edward getting annoyed. Let him steal a kiss in peace."

Alice grins, and sends Edward a private thought: _Sorry, brother dear._

Alice sees when Carlisle's plane sets down. Laying aside the magazine she's been perusing, she looks off into nothing. "He's home," she announces.

Twenty minutes later, they've formed a little semi-circle near the base of the escalator, all facing main security. Disinterested people pass, unconsciously granting a wide berth to six vampires and their one honorary human member. Alice has begun jigging up and down in her ballet slippers. Reaching over, Edward grips her shoulder. "I'm going to super-glue you to the floor, midget," he says, lips curled.

"I'll help," Emmett offers. "Then we can time how long until she gets free."

Alice wrinkles her nose at them both. "All I'd have to do is step out of my shoes, you know. Then I'd be very angry at you for ruining my best sequined pair."

"Who said we were going to glue the shoes?" Edward asks.

"Yeah, I was thinking more like the soles of her feet," Emmett adds.

Alice glances mutely at Jasper, who sighs. "Why do you three always insist on putting me in the middle? You couldn't be worse if you really had grown up together. Edward, Emmett, don't make me have to defend my wife's honor, y'hear?"

"Behave," Esme scolds all four of them, but without heat. Bella and Rose are steadfastly ignoring the entire exchange, but they smile.

Alice feels the earth itself shift beneath her, realigning. Tectonic plates that had been pushed up against each other or pulled apart resettle into a smooth surface in need of only one final piece.

And here it comes. She can see Carlisle's blond hair shining under the high airport lights as he moves at the rear of a small crowd of weary, harried travelers. His own face looks relaxed, but then he sees them -- _all_ of them -- waiting, and his step hitches. She knows he didn't expect this. Last time, it had just been Edward, and he probably hoped for Esme today. But they're all here, come to claim their patriarch.

Then he's running -- or trotting really. He can't appear too fast or easy on his feet while lugging his things. Esme goes to meet him, her arms circling his shoulders as he drops all but the laptop slung over his shoulder, hugging her tight and lifting her off her feet. He's laughing. So is she. Their joy is palpable, and it makes Alice smile. Even strangers passing by cast them a glance and grin.

Finally Carlisle releases Esme even as Emmett approaches to take the carry-ons Carlisle let go of, freeing him to greet each of them in turn. He hasn't stopped grinning since he saw them. "This is the best Christmas present in the world," he says as he hugs each one, Bella right along with the rest. "My whole family . . . "

He trails off with a nervous glance at first Rose, then Jasper.

"The whole family," Alice echoes with conviction. Nobody contradicts her.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes:** A discussion ensues between Bella and Edward on the way back to Helen, and with help from Carlisle, Edward finally gets to the heart of the matter.

* * *

Edward is torn. On the one hand, he hasn't seen Carlisle in almost a year. For a vampire, that's not so long, but a lot has happened in that year and email isn't the best medium for discussion. It can tell him nothing of Carlisle's _thoughts_, and Edward often relies as much on hearing his foster-father's inner thoughts as he does on hearing his actual words. Yet he hasn't seen Bella either since he left her sleeping in the wee hours of Monday morning, and if they've had email and phone calls too, that substituted no better. He's missed her like a physical ache and holding her hand in the airport assuaged that only a little. Eager to make Carlisle welcome, the family is heading back to Esme's -- now Carlisle and Esme's -- cabin, and they've just assumed Edward will come as well. Edward knows Esme is hoping none of them stay long, which suits him just fine.

He steals a second kiss from Bella as he helps her into his Audi; he insisted on driving her as Carlisle is taking her place in Alice's car. She acquiesces to his kiss, even kisses back with an enthusiasm that reminds him who kissed whom first, Sunday evening. This one is longer and sweeter than what they shared in the airport. Her mouth is soft and wet, and he soaks her in like grass drinks morning dew.

Finally, she lets him go and they smile stupidly at each other. "Let's go," she says after a moment, bringing him back to earth. Walking around to the driver's side, he hops in and starts the car.

They talk of inconsequentials while he navigates them out of Atlanta traffic, but once they're headed north on I-985, he asks, "Would you mind terribly if, ah, if I stayed at Rosalie's for the next week or two on the days I'm in Helen?"

Bella glances over in confusion. "Why are you asking me? It's Rose's house. And why would you want . . . it's not . . . ah . . . do you mean stay in my room, or -- ?"

"I wasn't asking to move in with you." If Edward can't read Bella's mind, he can read her face. "It's just that Esme hasn't seen Carlisle since last year, and for even longer before that, and the cabin is small. Although size doesn't matters if you're a mind-reader with vampire hearing." He tries to inject humor to cover embarrassment. Sex is a delicate topic. Intellectually, he knows they must broach it themselves at some point, but his circumspect nature and the era of his birth make it difficult to discuss -- especially with a woman. "They aren't demonstrative but we'd all be happier if I stayed somewhere else. Rose and Emmett don't lack for guest rooms, and I don't need to sleep in any case."

Bella only nods, facing forward, eyes on the road. The sun has gone down already and oncoming headlights make a wash of white gleaming past across the median. Neither she nor he speak for a while. His mind wanders. He's been thinking a lot this past week -- mulling over the future, and possibilities. Again, he knows he should talk to Bella, but a lifetime of reading minds has left him ill equipped to start a conversation like this. It's not quite the same as quizzing her about her favorite books or best holiday memory. Asking her about their future puts his own needs on display -- his hopes, his wishes. Are they the same as hers? He's afraid to find out. He's never been good at emotional risk. He usually has to be backed up against a wall by circumstance.

"I liked having you in the bed last Sunday," she says abruptly. "I'd forgotten what it's like to sleep with somebody else there, even if you don't sleep."

Surprised, he peers at her from the driver's side. "I was an only child -- no brothers to share a room with before my Change, and after, well . . . " He shrugs. "As you say, I don't sleep and never saw much point in pretending otherwise." He pauses again, then finishes, "You're the first person I've spent the night next to. Back in Forks, and here." He hesitates, then adds, "I like it too."

He doesn't miss the tiny smile that plays at the corners of her mouth. "I know you weren't asking to move in with me, and I know you don't sleep, but on the nights you are there, you're welcome to use my room, and bath when you need it. I know Rose and Emmett shower sometimes."

It takes him a moment to recover from his surprise at her invitation, then he says, "After, ah, after hunting . . . well, it can get a little messy, and there are other occasions when we need to clean up." He doesn't elaborate on that. "If you _are_ all right with it, then yes, I'd like to stay with you."

He starts to qualify it, promise he'll be a gentleman when in her bed -- but doesn't. It's easiest to leave the future open-ended. It might be poetic to say they've come full circle, back to where they left off ten years ago -- but it's not a return. She's a woman now, not a girl -- been a married woman, no less -- and he's not the same either. Loss humbles a person; he's learned be less absolute. Ten years ago, he wouldn't have considered moving in with Bella before marriage, and he recognizes that's what she's just proposed, albeit obliquely. She may have left it for him to interpret as he wished, but he's done with artificial fences of his own construction. He's learned that life offers enough boundaries and hurdles that are real, so he'll take as much as she's willing to offer. And if that means they 'live in sin,' well, so be it.

He's been considering living arrangements anyway, with Carlisle's return. The cabin was purchased when it was just him and Esme. Now . . . well, he knows Esme and Carlisle wouldn't mind if he continued to live with them, but he's reluctant to be the only one of their "children" still at home. The family has changed -- like real families do -- and painful or not, perhaps it's a good thing. It's time for him to move out as well. True, he has an apartment in Atlanta, but he's always seen it as a matter of convenience. He doesn't live there; his heart is wherever Bella is. Even so, it's probably a bit early to look for something with her -- never mind the difficulty of finding a wheelchair-adapted place in Helen, which is why Emmett and Rose remodeled their downstairs to begin with. Moving into their house for a few weeks to give Esme and Carlisle breathing space offers a convenient excuse while he and Bella work through the initial stages of defining their future. He can bring a few things, what he'll need most, then move the rest more gradually. Less of a shock for Esme.

"What are you thinking?" Bella asks.

He hadn't realized he'd been quiet for as long as he has been. "I was just considering what to bring over from the cabin for now."

"Well, clothes might be a good place to start."

He snorts at the teasing. "Obviously."

"Your piano?"

_Eventually,_ he thinks, but aloud, says only, "Rose has one. It's not the Bösendorfer, but it's nice enough." _For now._

"I guess it would be a bit much to move your piano for just a week or two."

He's not sure if that's a simple statement or if she's fishing, so he offers an open-ended reply. "Every time you move a piano, it has to be re-tuned. I've learned to tune it myself over the years, but it takes several hours, so I tend not to move it unless I plan to leave it there for a while."

"Ah," she says. "So you don't hang up your hat or leave your boots under the bed, you put your piano in the living room."

The unexpected analogy makes him laugh. "I suppose you could put it that way, yes." Silence falls for a minute and he can feel the conversation peek over the edge into something more frank, but they both take a step back. "I'll pack some bags while we're at the cabin and throw them in the trunk."

"Don't forget to ask Rose."

"I won't."

"How long do we have to stay tonight?" Abruptly, she blushes. "That came out wrong. I mean, I don't want to impose -- "

But he's laughing again, lightly. "I don't want to spend a long time there, either. Nor does Esme want us to."

"No, I imagine not." She's smiling too.

The rest of the drive passes in lighter talk and before long, they're home. Rose and Emmett had sped ahead to turn on the Christmas lights in welcome; it's Rose's version of an olive branch. Edward parks beside the bright red sports car so he can back out more easily later, then helps Bella while Alice parks on the main drive. Emmett is already at the trunk to fetch Carlisle's luggage, carrying it all in, and the next hour passes in handing out presents -- Carlisle has something for everybody -- and the relating of stories. Some are downright funny, but too many are shocking and horrible. In the midst of the cheery chaos and conversation, Edward pulls Rose aside to ask if she would mind him staying at her house "for a while."

She eyes him, one of her eyebrows hiked. "Is this a semi-permanent while?"

"Just . . . a while, for now."

"Mmm. Did you ask Bella about this?"

"Yes. She's fine with it. May I?"

"All right. You can stay. For a while." If she doesn't give him a hard time, she also can't resist tweaking him before she sashays off to slip her hand into the crook of Emmett's elbow. He grins down at her fondly. Edward wonders if his own face wears the same soft expression when he looks at Bella -- suspects that maybe it does.

After talking to Rose, he heads upstairs to fill two suitcases and a box. One suitcase (the smaller) contains clothes. The larger and the box are both packed with CDs and books. He's leaving the record albums for now, and the stereo, and his furniture. He doesn't care about the furniture, but he's pickier about his sound system than Bella is. As he finishes, Esme appears in the doorway. She watches him zip the suitcases, then finds her voice. "You don't have to go, Edward." She sounds . . . small. Diminished. He can hear the confusion and sadness in her thoughts.

Rising up, he crosses to the door and enfolds her in his arms. When did he become the comforter? It's always been the other way, even right after she was turned -- she had to reassure _him_ that she wasn't upset or angry. He thinks maybe that's when he first began to think of her like a mother. But now, he's holding her, not the reverse. Is this what it feels like to be a grown up? He is the eaglet poised on the edge of the nest, ready to fly. Beginnings take endings, and ending hurt.

"I know," he says, kissing the top of her head. "But you and Carlisle need some time to yourselves so I'm going to stay at Rose's for a week or two."

She pulls away to look up at him. She heard '_just_ a week or two' because that's what she wanted to hear, and he won't correct her. But she isn't fooled by his phrasing otherwise. "At Rose's, or at Rose's with Bella?"

"With Bella," he admits. She's a little shocked. They are from the same era. "It's too soon for anything more formal," he explains, "and too late to play games."

"I understand," she says. "You don't need to defend your decisions, Edward. You're a big boy and I want you to be happy. You deserve it, and you've waited far too long for it."

"Bella needed time, Esme. Don't blame her -- "

"I don't. I don't." She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her body. "I know all of you think I don't like her for some reason, but that's not true -- "

"I know you don't dislike her," he interrupts, tapping his temple to remind her. "But I also know you've gotten . . . impatient . . . with her, now and then." He'd say more, but suddenly Carlisle is there in the doorway. Edward was so involved with Esme, he didn't hear his foster-father's approach.

Crossing to hug him, Carlisle then grips his head to kiss his brow in blessing. "It's time, son," is all he says, and just like that, he's seen and understood everything that Edward's been circling around in his head for days. He cut right to the heart of it and in his mind, there is only peace.

Edward needs to go. Like Rose and Emmett, Alice and Jasper -- it's time. He was first, so it's ironic that he's also last, but perhaps predictable. Being stubborn, he always clung the hardest, yet he has someone else to cling to now. Once he recognized and admitted that's what is really happening here -- not just the fiction of giving Carlisle and Esme space -- making this change feels right, not rushed. What happened with Bella Sunday night wasn't a beginning, a foundation, but the capstone. The peculiar nature of their relationship makes everything look different, like a photograph negative. It's not until it comes out of the darkroom that he realizes they've been developing for a year. They are now a 'they' in bold colors.

"I'll help you carry this down," Carlisle says, picking up the box of books. "Alice and Jasper just left, and Rose and Emmett left earlier." Edward gets the big suitcase and Esme the smaller one. With his Maker going before him, and his mother coming after, he descends the stairs to find his future waiting in the living room. It may not be a wedding -- they're a long way from that -- but he's being given away into her safe-keeping.

They always did have to do things backwards or the long way around.

"Let's go home," she says.

**

* * *

A/N:** This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I got dragged out by friends to party in celebration of having all our grades done. :-D I'm getting too old to stay out till all hours of the morning and wake up with a hangover! LOL! That's the downside of passing 30. Anyway, here it is, and now I can, hopefully, get back to a more predictable posting -- although I'm only a day late from my regular weekly post this time. :-)


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes:** There are discussions. And are they ready yet to pee with the bathroom door open?

* * *

Normally, the Cullens are very good at "remembering to feed the human," as Rosalie playfully puts it, but sometimes they forget and Bella -- who is used to being at the mercy of others' schedules -- has learned to pack fruit and granola bars. She ate two bars and a banana over at Esme's but is still hungry, so when they return to the house, she tells Edward she's going to make dinner and leaves him to move in. She thinks he might prefer it if she isn't hanging over him, watching while he puts away his underwear and socks -- although she does clear out a drawer for him. "I'm sorry I don't have a chest as well as a dresser," she says. "But too much furniture makes it hard for me to get around in here."

"No worries," he replies. "I can use the closet." It's nearly empty in fact, as Bella hangs up as little as possible to save herself the need of a reacher to get it down. Only clothes that would absolutely wrinkle otherwise go on hangers. "I didn't bring that much," he adds.

She smirks as she rolls out of the room. "I think the bulk of your luggage consists of things to read or to listen to, instead of to wear. Are you trying to tell me I have lousy taste in books and music?"

"I never said that!" he calls after. "I just don't need to wash my clothes that often."

"Oh," she calls back, already halfway down the hall. "I thought maybe you just wouldn't wear clothes that often."

It's too bad she's not in the bedroom to see him get all embarrassed and stutter. Just the thought of it makes her smile while cooking.

She's finishing a quickly whipped-up dish of stir-fry when Edward appears in the kitchen. He's barefoot and running a hand through his hair as if he's nervous about something. The strange copper-brown color practically glows under fluorescent lighting. "I'm really sorry," he begins. "I should have remembered to stop on the way back to Esme's to get you dinner."

"Its fine," she says. "I should have reminded you." She won't let him feel guilty for ridiculous things. "And are you sure you weren't raised Catholic?"

"What?" His expression is pure bafflement as he pads over to seat himself in a spare chair at the little eat-in table. There are normally four chairs, but with the table pushed against a wall, there's room for only three and one spot is left permanently open for her wheelchair. It's not as if the vampires use it much, at least, not to eat.

"You and your guilt," she explains as she dials off the stove and pours her dinner onto a plate before putting the skillet in the lowered sink. It makes a dull clank of metal on metal, and the kitchen smells of hot sesame oil, soy sauce and onions "It's very Catholic."

He smirks. "Blame my mother for my guilt. She was very Irish -- and very Catholic -- at least until she met my father. Back then, being Catholic wasn't a good thing. She converted in order to marry him."

"Yeah, I keep forgetting that Kennedy being Catholic was a big deal when he was elected."

"It was."

"So what were you raised, if not Catholic? I don't think I've ever asked."

"Episcopalian. It was liturgical enough to assuage her guilt over converting, but still protestant." He frowns. "Needless to say, her father wasn't happy when she married my father."

"Just over religion, or was there more to it?"

"'Just,' Bella? That's a very . . . I was going to say 'modern,' but there are still wars fought over religion. It's a very _secular_ point of view. Do you have any idea how recent it is that religion can be dismissed like that? And in some areas of the world, it still can't be."

She scrunches up her nose. "That's why I don't like religion. So much evil and cruelty has been perpetuated in the name of God. Look at the Crusades, or the Inquisition, or the Holocaust -- or 9/11, for that matter? I have a hard time taking religion seriously."

"But much good is also done in the name of God -- whatever name he goes by. For each of those terrible things you named. and a good two dozen you didn't, there are thousands of good things, often smaller in scale, but kindnesses and generosity no less real. It's not one or the other, but some of both. I could point out the horrible things done throughout history in the name of _love_, but most people aren't willing to condemn love just because it gets twisted by twisted people."

She nods, reminded that he really _is_ much older than her, whatever lie his face gives. Sometimes she feels older, but then a conversation like this reminds her it's not so simple. "Do you believe in God?" she asks him.

"Yes." His answer is quick and unqualified. "You don't." It's not really a question.

"I'm not sure. I don't _disbelieve_, but I don't believe, either. I've not really seen anything that convinces me either way."

He smiles his wonderful crooked smile that she adores, and looks down at the table, drawing idle figure-eights on the light-wood laminated top. "Belief isn't about proof."

"I know. Mark told me that more times than I can count. I guess I'm just not good at believing -- too much the scholar. I need hard evidence."

He lifts his eyes to stare at her. "You believe in me. You shouldn't. I've told you a hundred times that I'm dangerous. You _know_ I'm dangerous, you have the evidence -- more dangerous to you than to any other human being on the planet -- yet you believe in me."

Caught in her own illogic, she shrugs with one shoulder. "I love you," she says simply, and before he can call her on the absurdity of that argument too, adds, "You believe in God, but you can't believe he can forgive you -- or that you have a soul?"

Now he shrugs. "It's what I learned to believe."

"You also, apparently, learned to believe being Catholic was a bad thing."

"_Some_ believed then that it was; I didn't say I did."

"And _some_ believe now that being a vampire means you have no soul. I don't. Frankly, I find it silly. There are souls or there aren't, and if souls exist, then you have one, Edward." She pauses, then adds with all the conviction she can put in three words: "A good one."

One corner of his mouth curls again. "So I'll believe in God for you, and you can believe in my soul for me -- deal?"

"Deal," she says, half-laughing.

When she's finished with dinner and the dishes are done, they head back to her bedroom and the air between them becomes charged. "I'll, ah, go play on Rose's piano for half an hour," Edward blurts, "let you get ready for bed."

"It's barely ten, Edward."

"It's been a long day."

He's gone before she can reply and she's reminded of those first weeks, even months, after Mark moved in with her. They might have been willing to get naked in bed, but less pleasant bodily functions had still been a source of embarrassment. She'd known they'd arrived as a married couple when he'd left the bathroom door open while peeing and she'd just laughed instead of blushing when she farted. Edward doesn't have bodily functions of that sort so she wonders what their sign of acceptance will be? Then she realizes that he let her see him eat.

When he returns after half an hour, she's already in bed, propped against her bedrest pillow, reading. She's left the right side empty for him. "Hi," he says, looking awkward, and she smiles, laying aside her book. Now it's her turn to be the one with more experience.

"Come to bed," she says, patting his spot, then thinks to ask, "Do you have pajamas?"

"Bella -- I don't _sleep_. Why would I have pajamas?"

"It can't be comfortable lounging in bed in khakis and a polo." Although that's what he'd done the other night when she'd let him stay with her.

"It doesn't matter to me."

"It just looks _uncomfortable_ to see you fully dressed lying in bed." That it might be easier to get him _out_ of something loosely fitting isn't a motive she's prepared to voice -- but it's one she's thinking.

"Fine," he mutters. "I'll . . . put on some scrubs."

She drops her eyes back to her book. "You could leave off the top. It's not like you'll get cold." She bites the end of her tongue to keep back her grin at his narrow-eyed look. But he doesn't comment, just grabs something from the neat stack on the top of the dresser and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door. She suppresses a laugh. Definitely not ready yet to pee with the door open -- even if he doesn't pee.

But when he comes back out, he's not wearing the top, just dutch-blue scrub bottoms. She stares. Damn. She'd forgotten how sculpted his chest and abs are -- far more than one would expect to find on the average seventeen-year-old. She knows it's all part of the vampire allure intended to seduce prey, but that doesn't detract from its effect on her. Here, out of the sun, there is no glitter effect, just his pale-pale skin stretched taut over muscles that make subtle curves and flat planes, and if she'd been teasing him about not wearing a shirt, she's now hoisted on her own petard. Her mouth is dry and she just wants to _touch_.

He knows it too, the vain creature. There is the faintest smile on his lips. Tit for tat, she supposes; she's been teasing him all evening. But then his face goes serious and he regards her thoughtfully. "When was the last time you did your exercises? You told me Rose -- "

"Rose helps me, yes." Although, she's grown a bit lax of late, and doesn't admit the last time she did them because it was four days ago and he'll probably scold her.

"If you don't mind, I could help you instead. Now that . . . well, as long as I'm here, I mean. It makes sense."

And that's true, but it will mean touching her in some rather intimate, if not necessarily sexy, ways. And now it's her turn to decide if she's ready to pee with the door open, so to speak. She remembers that he let her see him eat, and he knows exactly what to expect from her damaged body -- but knowing is different from seeing and feeling. She considers it. He doesn't rush her. Finally, she closes the book and lays it aside. "All right." She reaches behind her to remove the pillow so she can lie flat. He starts to do it for her . . . then refrains. She's grateful. If she's learned to accept common help in casual encounters, part of her _exercise_ means actually exercising -- doing things she can do, even if she does them more slowly. He's patient, which she's grateful for; no matter how fast he can move as a vampire, he is always patient with her necessary slowness. He's never made her feel _handicapped_, or not any more so than any other human compared to him.

When she's flat on her back, he comes over to the bed, turning back the sheet and blankets. The room is chilly and she shivers; he turns on the space heater. Her normal bed wear is an old t-shirt and loose sweatpants, none too different from what she's always worn, but tonight she put on something silky and attractive that still hides her lower body inside pajama bottoms. With Mark's loving attention, for a long time she was able to maintain some muscle tone, not develop the classic paraplegic wasted-leg look, but in the past year, she's felt that slipping and prefers to conceal the unsightly physical flaws. Now, he kneels beside the bed and smiles at her, running a hand lightly down her leg, and although she can't feel it, the gentleness of the gesture touches her heart. "What have you done already today?" he asks.

"Just morning lifts." A simple-enough exercise that's tougher than it looks as she must lift her body weight up and down several times using her wheelchair and a low-height chair in the corner of her room. It's designed to help maintain upper-body strength. She has "Michelle-Obama arms," as Mark used to tease her: firm and toned. Having a manual wheelchair helps too. Ten years of moving herself has made her stronger than she looks, at least above the waist. "I haven't had time yet to do the rest of it, or have Rose do it."

Nodding, he stands again, his face assuming a doctor's studied detachment. She wonders if it's for her sake, or his? His hands hover above her legs. "May I?"

"You're going to have to manhandle me to do my exercises, Edward. You don't need to ask my permission; I already gave it."

"It seems polite," he replies without either heat or embarrassment as his hands move over her. She watches because she can't feel anything beyond light pressure, but she can see that his touch is firm as he tests her muscle resistance. "Calves and thighs need work," he says, but it's more an observation for his own sake than a criticism. "And we need to keep these joints limber so the ligaments don't stiffen." He hesitates as his hands graze her thighs, nearing her hips. "Ah --"

"Go ahead."

He does so, his palms sliding over the bowl of her hip bones. "Tell me where you begin to have sensation."

"There," she says when his fingers reach just above the jutting curve. She watches as he slides his thumbs in along the base of her abdomen, just above the groin area. "That's the line," she says. "Anything below that . . . nada."

"Classic T-12/L-1 break. It's higher in the back? Just above the slope of the buttocks, below the small of the back?"

"Yes." He sounds very clinical and oddly, she likes this chance to see Dr. Masen at work.

"I'll test there when I turn you over."

She hesitates, then decides to just confess. "There are a few spots below the line where I can feel."

His eyebrows hike. "So it's incomplete? The paraplegia? I thought -- "

"No, it's mostly complete but a few nerves survived, apparently." This is her little secret. She's not sure why it's a secret, but it is -- something small and private known only to a handful of people.

"Show me?" His eyes look . . . hungry.

So she does. Reaching down, she moves his hand to a spot on the inner bowl of her right hip about the size of a half-dollar. "Right there. That's one." The brush of his fingers is light and makes her shiver, makes her nipples harden. When there's no sensation anywhere else, these small spots become ultra-sensitive, like peculiar erogenous zones. His eyes move from watching what he's doing up towards her face -- but don't make it past her chest. She expects him to pull away after seeing her reaction, but he doesn't. He just lets his thumb drift back and forth over the spot, teasing.

When she can't take anymore, she moves his hand to the second spot on the upper inside of her right thigh. "There. It's the smallest." He strokes it, too, with the same gentle attention. After a minute, she moves the hand a little further inside, almost to the leg rear. "That's the largest one. It's about the size of a small egg." He tests it, lifting her leg to circle the irregular patch with his forefinger. She drags in a breath. Bending abruptly, he kisses her kneecap.

"All L2 dermatomes." His voice sounds throaty and she chances a glance at the front of his scrub slacks. There is a tell-tale bulge. "These are L2 areas. What's the last?"

"Um -- a little higher." She coughs. "On the right side of my mons."

"Ah." It comes out strangled, but his hand moves there, finding the sensitive skin at the edge of her pubic hair and she gasps the same way she might have once at a brush of her clit. He swallows and she watches his Adam's apple bob. "All on the right hemisphere."

"Yes."

"Clearly some of the dorsal root ganglia survive into the L2 vertebra."

"Apparently," she agrees, mostly to have something to say. Despite educating herself on her injury, she has no idea what 'dorsal root ganglia' are. "Those spots are . . . sensitive."

"Yes. Yes, they probably would be." He swallows again. She'd laugh if she weren't as affected.

He concentrates then on the exercises designed to keep her muscles from atrophying. She can do some of these herself, but it's easier with a second party. He's more vigorous than Rosalie -- not rough, but vigorous. Rose may be a doctor, but Edward has a better grasp of what her muscles require and she hasn't had anybody work her limbs with this sort of easy confidence since Mark. For a moment, she tears up and he notices, halting instantly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. Just . . . " she trails off. She doesn't know how to explain without causing him pain, but he sits down on the bed edge and wipes a trace of moisture from the inside of her eye.

"Tell me."

"You know what you're doing."

Puzzled, he frowns. "Well -- yes."

"Mark did too. He made sure my muscles were worked well."

And he gets it now. His eyes grow a little sad. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Sometimes I still miss him. It's not . . . it's not that I don't like having you here." The tears are coming a little more freely now, and she realizes that a part of her is grieving -- oddly -- for the fact she's no longer grieving. "I do like it. But it means . . . it means letting go." His eyes look so _sad_ at her words so she reaches up to grip his wrist where his palm is cupping her cheek. "I can love you both, Edward. I don't love you less for having loved him. It doesn't work that way."

He opens his mouth, then closes it and looks down. After a moment, he manages, "I started to say 'I know' -- but I don't. I don't know. I've only ever loved you. I don't want to be jealous."

"But you are. A little." She grips his wrist tighter. "It's okay. It's better if we're honest, I think." She takes a deep breath and tries to verbalize what's going on in her head. "I'm glad you're here. I want you to be here, and I want you to do this for me. It just reminds me. But Mark's dead. And you're not."

"Well, technically -- "

"You're not dead. You're . . . something else -- but not dead. I saw dead, Edward. I saw his empty face and there's no mistaking dead. You're not. I need you to be alive, and with me. I know it's hard for you not to feel jealous sometimes, but you don't need to. I loved him and I always will a little. But I love you. That's in present tense."

Abruptly he leans over and buries his face in her neck. "Thank you," he whispers. She runs her fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Come on," she says after a moment. "Come to bed. You can abuse my poor muscles more tomorrow, but let's ease into it, okay? Come lay beside me and let me touch you."

So he does. Reaching over, she turns off the light; the only illumination comes from a pair of solar nightlights, one on either side of the room. They help if she needs to get up in the middle of the night. Of course he can see perfectly well as he slides in beside her, slipping between the blankets and top sheet, but she insists he get beneath it all. "I need to feel you."

"But I'm cold."

"Only because you've been out in the air. You'll warm up under the blankets."

He does after a while, soaking in heat from her body trapped under linen and wool. She runs her hands over his bare chest, kissing skin here and there -- above his left pec, at the curve of his left shoulder, over his right collar bone, and right in the center of his sternum over his silent heart. He runs his own hands down her neck, over her shoulders and along her arms. This is different from Sunday night -- more intimate but less driven. She's not really sure where they're going and thinks he has even less of a clue. She tries not to make mental comparisons but can't help it. His skin is smoother than Mark's, but not as soft, and of course, not as warm. It really is like stroking finely sanded wood, wood that -- impossibly -- moves. He is her Pinocchio; her love makes him real. Then he kisses her and she forgets comparisons, thinking only about the scent of his breath, cool and sweet. His tongue ghosts along her upper lip, almost a tickle, then he catches her lip between his, sucking ever so lightly. At his mercy, she can only lie there and try to remember to breathe. Her lips part to let his tongue slide over hers. His venom tastes tart and numbs her mouth like Chloraseptic. She'll remember this the next time she has a sore throat. The thought makes her giggle and he pulls away. "When you start laughing as I'm kissing you, that makes a man nervous."

"Sorry." She tries to swallow her giggles and fails. "It's just -- you're like drinking analgesic." She spurts giggles again. "The venom, I assume." Even in the dark she can see him frowning, perhaps annoyed, perhaps only confused. Reaching up, she strokes his cheek. "Don't be insulted, but you have to admit, it's kind of amusing. It has nothing to do with your kissing." That's her analgesic for his pride. "You're a very good kisser, Edward."

Hearing that, he returns to it. He's sensual and she likes that. He doesn't just assault her mouth but moves his over hers, teasing with his tongue, even nibbling occasionally. She matches it, dragging her lips over his chin and along his jaw. His breathing has sped up and he's unconsciously lying on her, pressing his body against her. She wishes she could feel below her waist to know if he's as aroused as he sounds. When younger, she'd not have recognized an erection if she'd felt one, and now can't feel there at all. She fears if she reaches down to find out, he'll jump through the roof. He's already tense, flinching whenever her hands travel too near his buttocks or nipples.

_He's a virgin,_ she reminds herself. All this is new to him. Yet at the same time, he must surely know more about sex than the most experienced hustler. He's 116 years old, has three medical degrees and has been in thousands of minds down the decades. Yet how much can an intellectual understanding offset the fact his body is that of a seventeen-year-old boy with all the uncertainties and neediness and physical naïvité that entails?

It isn't either-or, but both-and for him. He is -- and emphatically is not -- inexperienced. But they won't make love tonight, at least not in the usual meaning of the euphemism. He's not ready, even if his body thinks it is. She wants to ease him into this, give him the experience of gradual discovery that most people get, not throw him in the deep end just because she's been swimming there a while. However, she won't let him be coy either. She _isn't_ the seventeen-year-old she was when last they were together, and she warned him last Sunday that she'd be running the bases. Second base is beckoning.

She slides her left hand down his sternum (the right is trapped under his neck and head), then splays her fingers to drag just the tips of her blunt nails over his diaphragm, tickling, teasing. She feels his whole body tense and he gasps as she slides her mouth down his throat to bite -- very gently -- the hard skin above his collarbone. She knows she can't hurt him -- probably can't even give him a hickey -- but she hopes he can feel that. He must, given the whine coming out of his throat: "Bel-laaaah."

Her hand drifts up, dragging over the underside of his ribcage to find his right nipple. It's hard and puckered, the small areola ever so slightly raised. He gasps. "Oh, God!"

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's thinking, _Score!_ She'd giggle again if her mouth wasn't occupied with his collarbone. Her index and middle finger rub circles around his nipple. He's trembling and sucking in air he doesn't need. She waits for him to protest . . . but he doesn't. Both his hands grip her back -- clutch at her really as if she's his life vest.

Pulling back, she watches his face while her fingers keep moving. His mouth is open in something between shock and pleasure, and his golden eyes are closed. He's frozen, as if he's forgotten how to move -- or is afraid to. She lets him get used to the sensations, dropping occasional kisses on his nose, his chin, his cheek, his lips. Not all men have sensitive nipples, but obviously he does. She alternates between rubbing, pinching, and circling gently and his expression is transported. His grip is getting tighter and she grits her teeth to avoid wincing. He's not trying to hurt her. Bending, she whispers in his ear. "Relax, Edward. Let go of my back and roll over onto yours."

He gasps and seems to come back to himself, letting her go. But he doesn't roll onto his back, just scoots away and stares at her, half-startled, half-frightened. "I hurt you."

"No, you didn't. You were just gripping a little hard."

"I could hurt you."

"Yes, you probably could, but that's why I suggested you lie on your back. Right now, it's all sort of new. You'll get accustomed to the feelings." She tilts her head. "I assume you've touched _yourself_ before -- masturbated?"

"Bella! I -- "

"Edward, love . . . " She sighs and spreads her hand in the middle of his chest, shoving him over. He lets her, because she certainly couldn't have budged him if he hadn't. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, my Victorian prince." He looks partly amused and partly offended. "You _have_ masturbated, right?"

He stares at her in the dark and she can't read his expression. Finally, he manages, "Well . . . yes."

"Good. I'd worry about you if you hadn't. And I gather you've not destroyed houses in the process?"

His laugh is abrupt and short. "No. No houses."

"Good. Any beds?"

"Bella!"

"I'm only half joking." She props herself on an elbow to smile down at him, then bends to kiss his cheek. "We need to talk. You need to trust me."

"I . . . do. Trust you. It's myself I'm none too sure about. Like I said, I could _hurt_ you. I could bite you."

"I know," she says it flatly. "I'm not denying that. But let's be rational about it. I know you." She grins at him and runs a fingertip over his cheek. "You have a Ph.D in worry. So let's consider this pragmatically, okay?"

He's frowning, fine brows drawn together. "Okay," he manages finally. "But things haven't really changed. I still can never lose control with you -- even more now, when half of you can't feel it if I do hurt you."

She nods. "I know that." She lets her fingers drift down from his face to his chest. He'd been too young when changed to have much chest hair but a little brown-red fringe tops his pecs and makes a line down the center over his breastbone. She looks at that instead of his face because even if she knows she's got to be the one to push this or he never will, and even if she learned to be frank with Mark, that doesn't mean she's not blushing.

"I was a fairly innocent little girl who grew up in a house with no brothers. I knew nothing about boys when we first started dating, but I've learned a thing or two since -- and I know it's quite possible for either gender to have an orgasm without wailing and convulsing." She can feel his body tense under her hand and continues to rub calming circles on the skin of his shoulders and upper chest. She's not trying to arouse him now. "At least that's true for humans." She risks a glance up at him. His face is frozen, his eyes wide -- probably in mortification.

"I assume it's not too different for vampires? But it may be . . . " she trails off, then tries again, "It may be that you'll never be able to let go entirely like you wish you could, or like I wish I could see you do. I understand you have very real limitations -- just like there are things I can't do anymore that I wish I could. I've learned to deal; it's not all or nothing. That's what I've learned, being paralyzed. There's a lot of middle ground and it can be pretty fantastic. So unless you regularly ruin bed frames when you masturbate, I think we're probably okay to experiment and see how far you can safely let go."

He's still staring at her and she wishes he'd _say_ something, even while she's afraid of what he'll say, that he'll reject her ideas entirely and flee back behind his absolutes. But when he does speak, what he asks surprises her. "What _can_ you do?"

"What can I do?"

"Your limitations -- what are they? How much can you feel? Can you . . . ah" -- he licks his lips but it's nervous, not erotic -- "can you, well, um . . . " He trails off and she realizes he can't say the words. This is too personal; he's Edward right now, not Dr. Masen. "I mean, are you able to . . . ah -- "

She takes pity on him and helps him out. "Can I climax?"

"Yes."

She nods. "I can, but it takes a little time -- well, a lot of time -- and knowing how to stimulate me right. But I can."

"You'll show me?" He sounds almost eager, and she realizes he probably needed this balance, this vulnerability on her part. She'd been discussing him and his sexual responses like he's a vampiric Kinsey experiment.

"Yes, of course I will."

One of his hands lifts to grip her upper arm gently, then runs his palm back and forth along it. "I don't break beds," he admits. "Not usually. Sometimes it's more intense, sometimes less. It depends."

He's talking! She'd get up and dance a jig if she were able. It's vague, but he's talking and not just freaking out. "Depends on?" she prompts.

He prevaricates. "On a lot of things. My mood. How long since I last . . . ah, you know. Where I am. How much time I have -- although 'time' is relative for vampires."

Leaning in, she rests her chin on his shoulder and watches the side of his face. He has a slight rise in his aquiline nose -- very patrician. She feels a silly bubble of happiness burst in her stomach. He's not fighting her, and he's opening up a little. She lets her free hand stroke his chest again, less for comfort now than to arouse. Her fingers ghost over his nipples and he sucks in breath. "You are sensitive, aren't you?"

"Are you?" He blurts it out, and if he could blush, she suspects his face would be flaming.

"Very," she admits. "The less feeling down below, the more it generalizes to other body parts." Silence falls again while she strokes him, back and forth across his stomach, up his sternum, across his upper chest and down again on the outside, sliding in to tease his nipples further. His mouth opens, closes, opens again but he doesn't speak. She can feel his hand _twitching_ against her side like he wants to move it. "Do you want to touch me too?"

"_Yes,_" he hisses, rolling abruptly and pushing her over onto _her_ back, his eyes glued to her chest, fascinated. She's seen him try to steal shy looks, but this is different. He's almost _adoring_ and her nipples pucker from just the force of his attentive gaze. Surely he's seen a woman's naked chest before, or given a breast exam in his gynecology rotations, but he's probably never touched someone sexually.

"Go ahead," she invites. "Touch me."

His hand comes up and even in the dark, she can see it's shaking. He draws his palm -- lightly, lightly -- over the swell of her left breast from the top down. It feels nice and she makes a soft sound, encouraging as he runs his forefinger from the sternum around the underside. Lying on her back, the weight of her breasts have slid to the side and he cups one through the silky fabric of her nightshirt. He's very gentle. "That feels nice," she tells him, then grins at his grin, wide like he just won the lottery. Cautiously, he drags his fingers up and ghosts them over the peak. She sucks in breath at the sharp sensation. His eyes are on her face and she meets them. She can't tell if he's more excited, or more terrified. "Do it again."

He does, the pads of his fingers lingering, exploring, taking the measure of her. She parts her lips and breathes through her mouth. They spend some minutes with him doing that until his eyes look almost _glazed_. She suspects hers do too. Her head is back, chin up, lost in how it feels to be touched like this again. She's drunk on his breath. "Edward . . . "

"How far do you want to go right now?" he asks, his hand still working her.

She tries to think rationally past what he's waking inside her chest, all fluttery. "I don't know. How far I _want_ to go is probably further than we should." That wins a smile from him. "I don't want to rush. Sex is like good wine, something to savor. But I don't . . . " -- how to say this without scaring him? -- "I don't want to play games. I love you too much, we've waited too long, and I'm too old for that."

"I don't want the games either," he admits. It's strangely honest for him. He continues to play with her breast, his eyes on her silk-covered chest, not her face. After a moment, he continues, "I'm here. I'm sleeping/not-sleeping in your bed." She notices that he doesn't add 'for a few weeks.' She has a feeling the piano will be moved soon. "But savoring it like wine -- that's as good an analogy as any." One side of his mouth lifts. "We have all weekend. And I'm really curious about those spots you showed me earlier."

She purses her lips. "Are those the only spots you're curious about?"

"Oh, no, not the only ones." His fingers come back to her nipple, pinching gently and she arches her back, pushing up into his palm. Bending, he whispers in her ear. "I want to explore every inch of your skin that you can feel."

The words make her _purr_ and arch again, then reach up to slide fingers along his rib cage. "As long as I get to do it back."

Bending, he kisses the spot where her neck joins her shoulder. "How about you get to explore as much of me as I get to explore of you? If you explore every inch _I_ can feel, that might wind up a little uneven."

She laughs. Because of what his hands are doing. Because he's grinning. And because he feels comfortable enough to make a little joke about her paraplegia, not avoid it or be clinical about it. But most of all, because she's incredibly lucky to have found love -- real love -- twice in a lifetime.

* * *

**A/N:** A few explanations for terms here because, being familiar with them, Edward and Bella wouldn't need to use more complete terminology. Not all readers will care, but for those who do:

First, spinal column injuries, or SCIs, come in two basic types: complete and incomplete. In a complete injury there is little to no feeling below the area affected by the break. Sometimes those with a complete SCI can still feel _pressure_ (like Bella can), but not pain or pleasure, heat or cold, etc. An incomplete injury comes, as one can imagine, in varying degrees, but it means the spinal cord was not severed in full and some sensation and control extends past the point of the break. Yet even in injuries labeled 'complete' there may still be a few spots below the injury which can feel sensation on the skin -- usually these to areas affected just one or two levels before the point of the break.

SCI is divided into types, based on where the break or lesion occurs. Quadriplegia (a "quad") is paralysis from roughly the shoulders/upper chest area down, while paraplegia (a "para") is the chest/waist down, and the spinal column is divided into four basic vertebra areas: C, T, L, and S. Not to get too technical, C is very high -- essentially breaking one's neck; anything above a C8 (bottom of the C area) is a quad and will involve some serious medical issues. Breaks at T1 and lower make things easier and one can live more independently but, obviously, the higher the T-break, the less sensation and strength in the arms and chest. A T10-L1 area and lower is (for SCI) pretty easy to handle with a lot of mobility and easier bladder/bowel control, etc. Being at the very bottom of this, Bella has control over everything down to her hip area, where feeling and control get dicey. She can't sit unsupported or move her legs, but otherwise, she has complete control of her body from her abdomen up. Also, Edward mentions 'dermatomes' -- this is essentially skin sensation, or the ability to feel touch. This is often what one gets with feeling below the break area. The number of surviving nerves are usually too few to offer any sort of muscle control, but there may be sensation. Because all the skin around it feels nothing, these spots get _really_ sensitive. Some paras get a little private about them, although it depends on the person and where they're located. The L1 area is essentially the upper hips down to the upper groin (front), and the L2 area is the upper outer thighs to the upper inner thighs on the top of the leg. Bella has just a _little_ of what's called Brown-Sequard syndrome, or damage to only one side of the spinal column down to the L2 area. That's why she can still feel a little lower on her right side.

The thing to remember about SCI is that every injury is unique and so is a person's nervous system, so no two SCI patients will have exactly the same sensation loss patterns. It all depends on where the lesion occurs, whether any nerve connections survived, and what the surviving nerves go to.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes:** Edward and Bella go Christmas shopping.

* * *

Bella isn't much for shopping and never was, even before being in the chair made it difficult to navigate aisles, especially in smaller specialty shops (including used bookstores) -- places that are actually interesting. There's only so much to be said for Wal-Mart, or Sears, or even Dillards. A department store is a department store. Bella does much of her shopping online.

Yet Edward is insistent they go to _stores_ this Christmas, not Amazon or Ebay. "Are you sure you didn't have a personality transplant with Alice?" Bella asks him, half-laughing. He doesn't dignify her comment with a reply. It's late morning and they're on the road to Roswell, one of Atlanta's northern bedroom communities. Being much larger than Helen, it has an upscale town center -- fancy-speak for an outdoor mall -- which Edward can brave on this overcast Saturday. Bella would rather have spent his day off at home (preferably in bed), but Edward was up already when she woke, her breakfast prepared and his car ready for a roadtrip. A quiet observation from Emmett when Edward was outside explained things for Bella.

"It's his first Christmas with a sweetheart. You moved to Forks in January, and we were gone before the next Christmas. Last year, he was walking on eggshells with you." Emmett shrugged. "For once, he's not acting like Scrooge. But he's more of a sap than he pretends -- you better be prepared. He's gonna spoil the holy heck out of you."

So Bella puts up with being driven two hours south for Christmas shopping. It's clear this is meaningful to Edward, and it's easier to navigate stores with him around too. He doesn't hesitate to move displays or holiday decorations that are in her way, and doesn't apologize. At the music store, he even picks up an entire Christmas tree that's half-blocking the main entry and moves it.

"You can't do that!" one of the clerks cries as she comes running.

"Obviously, I can." He turns to face her down. Sensitive to his vampire menace without fully understanding it, she backs up two steps. "The placement of that tree is preventing your store from being handicapped accessible -- a person in a wheelchair can't get by -- and violates the Americans with Disabilities Act."

"Who made _you_ the cripple police?" she mutters, clearly annoyed. "You walk just fine and we don't get anybody in wheelchairs in here." She obviously doesn't see Bella behind him, but Bella is used to being either stared at or invisible.

"Maybe you don't get customers in wheelchairs because they _can't get in the damn door_," Edward snaps back -- loudly -- and turns sideways so the clerk can see Bella waiting on the sidewalk behind him. The clerk turns bright red and mouths a silent, 'Oh.'

Having noticed the confrontation at the entrance, the store manager hurries over to mediate, apologizing for any inconvenience. Edward might have made more of it but Bella is inclined to accept his apology. This happens too often. "It's okay," she says. "Thank you for letting us move the tree."

"No problem!" the manager insists, shooting a dirty look at his clerk. "No problem at all. We'll be sure to keep it out of the way from now on."

"Thank you."

When they're gone finally, leaving Edward and Bella to browse the racks, Edward snarls, "I should have just taken you and walked out."

"Edward, really -- it's all right. People don't think about it because they don't have to. It's an everyday occurrence for me."

"What that clerk said was inexcusable! And what she was thinking was worse."

"But the manager seemed genuinely upset about it." She watches him to see if he'll deny it; he doesn't. "Let it go."

She can tell from his clenched jaw that he's having a hard time doing so, and understands. Right after the accident, her mother, but especially her father and Phil, were very aggressive about her rights. They've mellowed since, and Mark -- being disabled too -- understood from the outset the importance of picking one's battles. If she were to complain every time she encountered discrimination -- which is to say, daily -- she'd be labeled a whiny bitch and disregarded. In fact, it was Mark who taught her that people are more inclined to respond well to a request and a joke than to a complaint. Perhaps she shouldn't need to make a request at all, but life is imperfect -- and too short to waste being angry all the time. She's become a glass-half-full sort of person.

Now, she lays a hand on Edward's arm and rubs her thumb gently over the raised wrist bone. "Thank you for caring -- but let it go. There will always be impatient people, and there will always be rude people. They're not worth our time." Then she points to a rack that's a little higher than she can reach. "Look and see if they have Disappear Fear. They're obscure, but this is a big store and I want to get one of their albums for Rose." It's time to change the subject.

Obediently, he looks but shakes his head. "Not here, sorry. Never heard of them either."

"They're a women's folk duo from Baltimore who sound sort of like the Indigo Girls. Rose likes the Indigo Girls, plus Joni Mitchell, Nanci Griffith and Sweet Honey in the Rock, so I thought she'd like them too."

He eyes her with humor. "Three of those date to the '70s. Rose's liking for them isn't recent. Besides, you used to be into alternative, not folk."

"My tastes expanded. And you're one to talk, Mr. Eclectic-mess-of-CDs-on-my-bedroom-floor."

"I wasn't complaining, merely observing."

Edward finds plenty even if Bella doesn't, and she tells him to tuck his bag into her pack on the rear of her chair. "I double as a shopping cart, you know."

"You're a lot more than a shopping cart, Bella." He sounds almost pained and she worries that he's about to melt into a little puddle of Edward-angst over the whole wheelchair business. If she hadn't wanted to go shopping initially, he had -- and she's determined not to let him regret it now.

"Of course I'm more than a shopping cart. _I'm a _wo-man," she sings and dances her chair back and forth, grinning up at him. "_I can put the wash on the line, feed the kids, get dressed, pass out the kisses and get to work by 5-to-9. Cause I'm a _wo-man_! I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let you forget you're a man! 'Cause I'm a_ wo-man!"

Edward rubs his forehead in exasperation -- perhaps at her failure of pitch more than her teasing. "You do realize that's a bad perfume commercial, not the original lyrics by Peggy Lee? Not that the original was precisely an anthem for feminism."

Grinning, Bella shrugs -- "Fine!" -- and launches into another song: "_I am Woman hear me roar in numbers too big to ignore, and I know too much to go back and pretend 'cause I've heard it all before. I've been down there on the floor -- no one's ever gonna keep me down again. Oh yes, I am wise, but it's wisdom born of pain. Yes, I've paid the price, but look how much I gained. If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman!_"

She trails off, asking, "Better?" then laughs at his purse-lipped expression and bumps his leg playfully with her chair wheel. "Hey. Being in the chair is a pain in the ass -- as you've seen -- so I'm going to emphasize what it gets me, which includes hands-free bag carting and moving to the front of the line at amusement-park rides."

Finally, he laughs too. "Have I told you lately how much I admire your fortitude?"

"Pragmatism, Edward. I learned a long time ago that I could waste my time bitching or get on with living." She pauses the chair to reach up and touch his arm. "It helps that I have people who give me something worth living for."

And that fast, his entire mood alters. He stares down at her with something close to adoration. "I want to make you happy, Bella." She remembers what Emmett said, that he's a bit of a sap.

Snagging his hand, she places a kiss in his cold palm. "You do."

Closing his fingers around the kiss, he glances around before bending to brush his mouth across hers. She likes that he feels free now to initiate kisses -- he's no longer awaiting her permission -- and she's glad he insisted they go shopping together after all. There's something reaffirming about being out in public as a couple without the satisfied amusement of his family as a backup chorus. The people around them know nothing of their history nor how long they've been together. They see only a young couple in love. No one even looks at Bella as if she robbed the cradle. Then again, his day job has granted Edward an indefinable dignity -- or perhaps he's just allowed to be himself in full at last. Even back in Forks, he'd seemed too old to be a high school junior, yet people see what they expect to see. They'd known he was in high school so that's what they'd seen, discounting any elements that didn't add up. Now, they see Edward with a woman in her twenties and notice instead the maturity he's always projected, discounting the youth of his face. She thinks this probably the more honest assessment -- but it also makes her consider what people will see in twenty years . . . and that, in turn, raises a whole host of questions about their future she knows they must grapple with eventually. But not just yet. This seedling relationship deserves time to blossom first. No reason to rush.

They meander amid holiday foot traffic, ducking into shops now and then to search out gifts. Bella is seven family members richer this Christmas, but if Edward and Rose -- and Alice too -- have all impressed on her that "it really is the thought that counts," even seven simple things is still seven more. At least Bella is old enough now to recognize the Cullens do show equal delight in the well-considered gift regardless of cost _because_ they have money enough that money doesn't matter. They've nothing to prove by a pricetag. Bella finds the most delightful collection of silly little toys for Emmett in a children's toy store -- essentially stocking stuffers with a stocking to put them in -- and when they pass a Christian Bookstore, she spots through the window a black-and-white print of an old-time, hewn-log town church. Going inside to find out where the photo was taken, she discovers it's from Reconstruction-era Texas and buys it immediately for Jasper. At a New Age shop a little further down, she gets Alice a crystal ball embedded in a sculpture of a winged fairy. The fairy even has dark hair. Edward can't stop giggling and before they can get out of the store, Bella's cell phone is going off.

Alice, of course. "I love it! And by the way, watch out for the deer!" She hangs up before Bella can inquire what she's talking about.

"How do you ever surprise her?" she asks Edward instead.

"We don't, but I don't think she cares."

"She says to watch out for a deer but didn't explain."

"Deer are always bolting across highways. She didn't say which highway, did she?"

"No."

"I'll call her before we head back to Helen."

The open-air pedestrian walkway is decorated with bows and baubles on columns and wreaths wrapping street lamps. Some local high school chorus is singing carols under an esplanade and by the central fountain, Santa is set up to meet kids (and provide a photo opportunity for parents). A real reindeer is with him and -- predictably perhaps -- gets more attention than Santa. Too late, Bella understands Alice's warning but before she can warn Edward, the deer scents him and tries to bolt, almost falling on its side when held fast by the lead. Adults shout, children scream, and Edward is gone from Bella's side too fast to see. A few seconds later, her cell phone buzzes and she answers. "Alice? Edward?"

"Edward. I'm outside the Hallmark store around the corner. There's a big dumpster in the parking lot here to hide me so I didn't seem to appear out of thin air." His tone is ironic, but he's speaking softly. "Damn Alice for not being clearer. Is everybody okay back there?"

"Yes. A few kids don't want to go near the reindeer again, but he didn't hurt anybody. The handlers are apologizing like crazy and looking very confused."

"I'm sure they are. That deer is fourteen -- very old and very tame." Bella would ask how he knows that, but of course, he can read their minds. "He's been doing these outings for seven years and this is the first time he's spooked."

"It's the first time he smelled the likes of you."

"At his age, it's a wonder I didn't scare him to death." He snorts and hangs up the phone as Bella makes her way down the sidewalk to where he's awaiting her, lounging back against the brick wall. "Are you getting hungry for lunch?" he asks.

"Sort of," she says, but her attention is diverted by something in the storefront window: a porcelain Victorian village scene illuminated by fiber optics and LED lights. "Ohhhh," she breathes. "Isn't it pretty?" She steals a glance at him but he's looking at her, not the display. "It probably can't match the reality though."

"Truth be told, it's a bit idealized. They left out the beggars and the greasy-smoke sky and the horse dung in the streets."

Laughing, Bella turns back. "Spoil-sport. I like my illusions." The sizeable display shows a village square with quaint shops, a steepled church and a one-room schoolhouse arranged around a large Christmas tree and peopled by miniature figurines. Santa is there on his sleigh, shoppers shop, carolers carol, and lovers hold hands; little woodland animals sit on tree stumps and men ice-fish. "I've always loved these things," she says conversationally.

She hears the tinkle of the door opening and glances over, surprised. Edward is gesturing her in. "Let's go and get it then." His face is alight with excitement and she realizes her mistake too late. Of course he'd offer to buy it for her.

"Edward! All those pieces must cost a couple hundred dollars!" His eyebrow just hikes. A couple hundred dollars is pocket change to him. "I'm not going to let you waste money on some huge-ass Christmas decoration that Rose might not want it in her living room. How would we get it back to the car anyway?"

"I can carry it, or drive the car around to this side. And it's for you, not Rose. You can put it in your room."

"_Where?_"

"On top of the dresser?" he suggests. She resists rolling her eyes at the idea of the whole assembly crowded atop her dresser, and she can see him hesitating now too. "I guess you already have things of your own . . . " he says, as if looking for a graceful excuse. The light is fading from his face and she recalls yet again what Emmett told her that morning: this is his first Christmas with a sweetheart. She remembers her first Christmas with Mark -- how exciting it was, and how important to have a few things of their own even if they'd spent the actual holiday with Martha. They'd bought a small artificial tree and box of ornaments, and hung lights on their apartment balcony. Cheap, but theirs.

She thinks Edward wants something that's theirs too, he just lacks a sense of proportion. Or rather for him, this _is_ small -- but it overwhelms her. That doesn't mean she can't recognize his wish, and share it. She does have decorations of her own, but she isn't ready to get them out, and she and Edward need new things anyway -- things that are theirs alone with no imprint of Mark.

She glances back to the window, spotting several smaller mini-villages on a display case off to the side, self-contained rather than multi-piece collectables. They come in different styles, and it is, she thinks, a suitable compromise. She points to one that has a pair of skaters on a mirrored 'ice' surface with fibre optic water and a sled that moves beneath painted buildings: a candy shop, a church, a house with trees covered in fake snow. "That's more likely to fit, and it has skaters. Why don't we start small and add to it? If we get everything at once, where's the fun in that?"

He follows the direction of her finger and cocks his head, then nods. "It would fit better. Next year, can we get one with a train? You like skaters; I like trains." He glances at her, his gold eyes cautious. He's risked himself, mentioning 'next year.'

"A train for next year definitely then," she agrees, and feels his hand slide under her hair to gently massage the back of her neck.

Later that evening once they're back at the house and the little animated scene is unpacked and assembled, Bella sits in front of the dresser, watching the play of changing light in the fake water. She runs a finger along the smooth plastic of fiber optics and thinks it's nice to have something that's truly _theirs_, not his and hers. Small, but they can build on it.

* * *

**A/N: First,** before anybody comments on the unlikely nature of the music store clerk's snarky remarks -- something like that happened to my sister just this past Christmas (details changed to protect the guilty). Yes, people out there really are that nasty. More often though, they're just thoughtless or impatient, especially around the holidays. I don't usually make overt pleas, but I hope if readers take away nothing else from this story, they'll see the people in chairs and be a little more patient, not rush ahead so they don't have to hold a door or walk behind them in a narrow aisle, and _not park in handicapped spots_ even 'just for a minute.' Life is tough enough, and a little thoughtfulness goes a long way! [/end public service announcement]

**Second,** thanks to all y'all wonderful reviewers! This story now has over 2000 reviews! I'm bowled over. Thank all of you SO MUCH. I still try to answer each one, although if somebody writes reviews to several chapters in a row, I answer those at once to save a little time.

**Third,** there's a link to a picture of Bella and Edward's Christmas village on my profile page here at ff-net, and in my Live Journal gallery (that_writr at Livejournal).

**Fourth,** -- cough -- keeping in line with Stephenie's love for naming bands, I've listed a few of the better-known female singers on the folk scene (well, except for Disappear Fear, but they're intentionally obscure). I grew up listening to my mother's Joan Baez albums and anybody in the women's studies institute at U of Georgia, Athens has heard of the Indigo Girls! They're from Athens, along with R.E.M. and the B-52s. (We grow good music in Georgia!)

"I'm a Woman" was an original song by Peggy Lee recorded in the '60s, taken over by Enjoli perfume in the '70s, and of course, Helen Reddy's "I am Woman" became a sort of anthem for the women's movement. You can hear both the perfume commercial and Helen Reddy's song courtesy of Youtube, but you'll have to run a search for them since ff-net won't let my post a URL that isn't theirs. :p

Any women's studies major worth her salt knows the Reddy song!


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes:** Edward needs words. Remember that some of the conversations they had in _Eclipse_ never occurred in this universe. Also, this part is both long and **VERY LEMONY**. Fair warning!

* * *

Hands flat on the marble counter, leaning towards the bathroom mirror, Edward stares at himself. Is he ready for this? He's as excited as he is nervous and his body has already responded to just the promise of touching Bella again. "Damnit," he mutters, dropping his chin and trying to think about anything else, but it's not working. Truth is, he's been thinking about tonight all day, which was part of why he'd wanted to go out shopping -- anything that might distract him a little. He'd been sure to wear loose Dockers.

But now they're back, it's bedtime, he's thinking about it again, and his scrub pants really don't conceal much. There are times he'd give almost anything to have been Jasper or Emmett's age when turned instead of 17.

"Edward? Are you okay?" Bella calls softly from the bedroom behind. He can't read her mind but her heart-rate is slightly elevated. Not frightened, but perhaps a little concerned, or maybe just excited, like him. It helps to know she isn't completely sanguine either.

How far tonight? How far is he ready to go? His body is telling him to take anything he can get but his heart is uncertain. What does he really have here? A promise of next year? He knows, intellectually, that when Bella agreed to _any_ of this, she wasn't thinking short term, but they've never discussed it and he needs to hear the _words_. He needs to know she won't change her mind. In this brave new future he's forced to occupy of commitments cavalierly made and capriciously broken, century-old Edward needs _more_. He wants to trust Bella, but he needs words.

He's not going to get them hiding in the bathroom. Turning away from his reflection, he goes out to find Bella already in bed, smiling at him. "Come," she says softly, patting the spot beside her. He's there before she can blink and she laughs, hugging him tightly. His head rests on her chest so that he can hear the tattoo of her heart under her ribs, thunder in his ear, her skin warm under his cheek and smelling faintly of wind and sun and the amazing perfume of her body's natural scent. He runs the tips of his fingers over her arm. She's wearing something a little different from last night, a nightgown rather than pajamas. It's modest but gathered under her breasts by elastic so that it shows off her figure a bit more. He wants to touch her again like last night. His whole groin is throbbing and he closes his eyes, trying to be content with just stroking her arm. "You're tense," she whispers to him. "What's wrong, Edward?"

"Nothing," he lies, because he has no idea how to verbalize everything he wants and needs. He's not good at talking; he never was.

He feels her kiss the top of his head as she rubs his bare back. Her fingers are as light as feathers, but soothing. She kisses his crown again and nuzzles into his hair. "You always smell so good."

It makes him smile, since he'd just been thinking the same of her. "You're the one who smells good," he whispers back. "Mine's all nature's deceit, meant to lure you in. Vampire."

"Isn't it all nature's deceit? Men smell good to women, and women to men so the species won't die out. The why doesn't matter really."

"It's a different reason for vampires, though. I smell good to you in order to make it easier for me to _kill_ you. Seduction for murder, not for reproduction."

She actually laughs. "Well, it's seduction for _food_. Every animal has to eat, Edward, and most species develop strategies for securing their next meal."

He raises up to look at her in astonishment. "You really consider us a _species_? We're monsters, not a product of the divine intent."

Her eyebrow lifts and she cups his cheek. "I believe in evolution. If there is a God who created the world, then it works logically according to rules. If you want to make the argument that everything is controlled _directly_ by God, then you have to explain why children are born with horrible diseases and disfigurement? Or why whole _species_ are evolutionary dead ends. If it's all under _direct_ divine control, then God is cruel. I prefer to chalk up a lot of it to chance and chaos theory. That everything works as well as it does is pretty amazing. Vampires apparently evolved to be a superior predator so yes, you're your own species"

He frowns because he didn't intend to start a theological debate with her, at least not tonight. If he honestly enjoys _talking_ with Bella, philosophical argument isn't his idea of foreplay. "It's still unnatural. _We're_ unnatural."

She sighs. "And a hundred years ago, my marriage to Mark would've been labeled 'unnatural' and was, in fact, _illegal_ in many states." He feels her fingers slide from his shoulder to his jaw to tilt up his head. "Look at me." He does so. Her brown eyes are soft in the low light. "I seem to have a penchant for picking _unconventional_" -- she stresses the word -- "partners. But love is love. And I love you."

She just lumped him in with Mark -- her husband. "You said 'next year' earlier today. You meant it?"

"Yes, Edward. You promised me you wouldn't go anywhere again. Neither will I. I'll be here next year, and the year after that too."

"And the year after that?"

"Yes." She smiles at him and lifts her head to kiss the end of his nose. "And the year after and after and after for as much of forever as I have."

"Marry me," he blurts. The words take him as completely by surprise as they take her. He hadn't meant to say that yet and he watches her mouth drop open a little in shock. Sitting abruptly, he runs his hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her. "Ah -- sorry. It's too soon. I know it's too soon. I just -- "

"Shut up, Edward."

He shuts up and dares to look down at her. She's smiling a little, but she's frowning too. "You know I can't."

Four words that crush his heart. He stops breathing.

"Not because I wouldn't," she adds quickly, apparently reading his expression. Her hand reaches out to close over the back of his resting on the bed and he lets her link their fingers. His breath starts again, but shallowly. She's visibly weighing words. "If we have a wedding, my father will want to be there, and if he saw you -- Well, he'd know you again." Edward swallows but can't deny that's probably true. "My mother . . . I think you could safely meet her as long as you stayed Ed Masen to her. She heard a lot about you once, but I haven't mentioned Edward Cullen to her in years, and she saw you only that time in Phoenix over a decade ago. She won't remember your face, and Phil never saw you at all. But my father . . . he'd remember you. And your family."

He knows it's true, but -- "We could elope. Go to Vegas."

She just grins. "Alice would kill you if you got married and deprived her of the opportunity to plan your wedding."

"So then what?" He's frustrated, anxious, off-balance. "Where is this going? Are we just going to . . . live together in sin for the next forty or fifty years?" He snaps his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to insult her and from the expression on her face, he can see she's getting upset.

"For somebody who doesn't believe he has a soul, why are you worried about sin?"

He drops his eyes and knows he's frowning now too. Their hands are still linked but the grip is loose. "It's how I was raised, Bella. Men and women didn't _do_ this. They got married -- made proper vows. They _promised_ each other. I'm not sure I believe I still have a soul, but if I do . . . " He stands abruptly and walks away from her, running his hands through his hair and staring out the sliding glass door to the line of pine beyond the yard. "I've killed people. You know that. It was a long time ago, but I did it. I have murder on my hands. And not just one or two people, either. Over a hundred. I've sent over a hundred souls to their judgment. I'll have to face that at mine -- assuming I ever have one. I've lied -- borne false witness, I've killed, I've stolen, I've coveted, I've taken the Lord's name in vain. I want . . . I want to have _one_ thou-shalt-not commandment I _didn't_ break. I'd like to be able to say I haven't committed adultery."

"I'm a widow, Edward. It's not adultery."

And all his upset peaks in rage; he spins back to face her. She's sitting up now in the bed. "You know what I mean!"

Amazingly, she's not afraid of him. "Yes, I do," she says levelly. "But please listen to yourself."

"Don't dismiss me!"

She sighs. "I'm not, Edward. Honestly -- I'm not. Please come back over here." She motions to him. He resists and she motions again. Finally, reluctantly, he approaches and lets her grip his hip with the hand not holding herself up. She pulls him closer and leans in to kiss his belly button above the waistband of his scrubs. "I understand where you're coming from -- I just don't agree with it. This isn't adultery. If you want to get technical, it's fornication -- which is a lesser sin, as I recall. And those rules were made for a whole different _world_, sweetheart." The endearment causes him draw a sharp breath; it's the first time she's ever called him anything but Edward and hearing it dissolves a little of his anger. "They were made for a world in which prostitution was common and legal, where legitimate children were important for land inheritance, and in which women were property. Do you think I belong to you?"

"Of course not. And I know what world the commandments were made for. They're still . . . they're good rules."

"Mostly. At least the ones that aren't religion-specific. I'm not denying that. But life isn't black and white, either-or." She looks up at him, leaning in to rest her chin (and some of her weight) against his abdomen. "Have I ever told you what Martha said to Mark and I the morning before she married us?" He shakes his head, not sure if he really wants to hear about her wedding day with Mark Jackson.

"She showed up at our place before we ever left for the church. We were sharing an apartment, you know." She winks at him.

"I knew that."

"Anyway, she brought over the marriage license. We already had people there, helping us get ready, and she had us and witnesses sign it _before_ the wedding. 'This doesn't make you married,' she told us. 'It just gives you a legal claim on each others' property. Your promises make you married, and your effort keeps you married. The rest is window dressing.' It was a pretty good object lesson."

He frowns down at her, uncertain of the point. Or rather, he understands the point fine, but he's not sure what it has to do with them. "And?"

"You already promised to stay with me. I asked for that, and you promised. And I promise to stay with you. You wanted promises -- we have them. Who needs a ceremony? We're not living in sin, Edward. We're living in love." Embarrassed, she shrugs a little. "Okay, so that was trite, but true. I don't need a preacher or a license to make me stay with you, and neither would stop me from leaving, if I decided to. I'll stay because I gave my word."

"You make it sound so simple." He says this partly in wonder, partly in annoyance.

"It is simple. At the root of it, it's very simple and very hard. Love's a choice -- not a feeling, not fate, and God knows, not inevitable. Falling in love is the easy part. Staying in love takes work. Mark and I were close -- but we fought, we disagreed, we had bad days, bad weeks, even bad months. We had a good marriage because we _made_ it good. Good marriages just don't happen because you magically find the right person." She wraps both her arms around his waist and he wraps his around her shoulders. "You've lived longer than I have. Surely you've seen that. I give you my promise to do that work with you. Do you give me yours?"

"Yes, of course. Absolutely."

"Then we're married, Edward. We can worry about the window dressing later -- something that won't get your family in trouble with my dad, but will still let Alice have her fun. Let's not worry about it right now though, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees, rocking her gently in his arms. His mind is racing. "You're serious, though? You're all right with this so soon? In my day, we might have fixed an engagement this quickly, but I know that these days -- "

"Edward!" she interrupts, laughing as she tries to mock-glare up at him. "It's not sudden. Maybe we've only been together again for a week, but how long have I known you? And I told you we wouldn't be here at all if I wasn't sure that I wanted it to be permanent."

He knows he's grinning like an idiot. "Stay here, then. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"What?"

But he's already out the sliding glass door, running for Esme's cabin where the majority of his belongings are still stored. His mind-touch ranges ahead to be certain he won't burst in on Esme and Carlisle in a compromising position, but they're just sitting on the back porch, watching the river flow past. They hear him coming and stand as he approaches. "Edward?" Carlisle asks.

He pauses only long enough to say, "I just need to fetch something. I'll -- we'll -- talk to you tomorrow."

"Why are you smiling like that?" Esme calls after, but he's already up the stairs to the little attic where his boxes are, bearing items from his parent's home. He has much more -- whole rooms-full of antique furniture -- but it's in permanent storage. Here, he has only what's dearest to him and digs through a medium-sized moving box with "Elizabeth Masen" penned neatly on the top. Finding what he came for, he re-packs the box and stands, but Esme is framed in the doorway, blocking his exit. "Edward?" Her face is curious.

He knows he's still grinning wildly. "Tomorrow," he promises, and kisses her cheek as he slips past. He exits by the front door so he won't have to pause for Carlisle again too. He can hear the amused confusion in their minds. 'What bee has he got in his bonnet?' Carlisle asks as Esme returns to the porch.

'I don't know,' she replies. 'But he looked very happy.'

He closes out the distant voices and runs at full speed back towards Bella in her -- their -- bedroom. She's sitting up now on the edge of the bed, braced on both arms. "Where did you go?"

"I had to get something." He drops to one knee in front of her and reaches for her left hand, gripping it tightly to help her balance. He can see in her amused expression that she recognizes his posture. He tries to make his own face serious, but can't manage it. He's just too damn happy. "I love you, Isabella Marie. I'll stay with you for the rest of your life -- in sickness, in health, for richer or poorer, for better and worse. Will you consent to be my wife?"

Her eyes are damp. "Yes, Edward."

He opens his hand to show her a ring -- his mother's ring -- which he slides onto her formerly blank left hand, then kisses the back of it. If he could cry, he would be. He's waited his whole impossibly long life for this, and however awkward, however unexpected and private the ceremony, it's still everything he wanted. When the ring is secure, he gets to his feet only to bowl her over, back into the tangle of bed sheets, kissing her whole face and neck and upper chest. She's laughing and crying. "You're cold!"

"I was running outside in the middle of the night," he says between kisses. "Of course I'm cold. Warm me up."

"Get under the sheets then and let me look better at what's on my hand."

He does so at double human speed, pulling up blankets to tuck them between her body and his. One is heated, which he bought that very afternoon to give his skin what it can't manufacture. She's holding up her left hand to examine the ring in the lamplight. The little diamonds on the face glitter as she turns it right and left. He lays his head on the pillow beside her and watches. She's smiling. "It's beautiful, Edward. It looks old too."

"It was my mother's. She gave it to me to give to the woman I married."

Turning her head to look at him, she says, "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_ for saying 'yes.'"

Chuckling a little, she rolls to face him. "I wasn't going to say 'no' even if it might have been a little sooner than I had in mind."

"You don't regret it?" He's worried suddenly.

"I told you -- twice now -- I always assumed this was permanent. I just wanted to give us time to get used to each other again before we started talking about how we were going to manage it -- all the details."

"The details can wait till morning at least. I just needed the words."

"I know you did." She kisses him lightly.

He returns it with vigor, his mouth opening against hers so he can flick his tongue over her lips. The shackles are off; she gave him what he needed and he's free. She murmurs against his mouth, moving her own lips and teasing his tongue with hers. He pushes his body against her, rocking his hips but trying not to crush her beneath him. Her hands smooth down his spine and across his shoulder blades. He can feel the cool interruption of the small band on her left hand and it makes him shiver. _His._ He knows it's possessive and un-PC, but the reverse is equally true. He is hers -- heart, body and soul, if he has one. This isn't about the monster inside him, but about the man. He's aroused, but still in control and he keeps his face from her neck. He kisses her temple and cheek and eyelids and the bridge of her nose as he presses his hips into the bowl of hers. He's warming slowly in the sandwich of heated wool and her soft skin. She's working on his jaw and throat, nibbling and licking. He stretches his neck to make it easier for her. Abruptly, he feels the pinch of _teeth_. It doesn't hurt of course, but it does startle him and he jerks up on hands and knees, raised above her. "What are you doing?"

"Playing vampire," she replies with a grin.

"Don't," he says, and it's serious. "Don't, Bella."

She strokes his shoulder and the back of his neck, soothing. "I'm just teasing. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I know. And you didn't really. But it could . . . unleash something."

One fine eyebrow hikes as she looks up into his face. Her wild hair halos her head. "Oh? Vampires bite each other during sex like cats?"

"Not exactly. But I'm still a predator. There are . . . instincts. I need to stay in control, stay a man, not a monster." He frowns. "You remember last Sunday."

"Yes," she says softly. "What triggered that? It would help to know."

He looks away, unable to quite meet her eyes. "The scent of you -- your arousal, your blood. I could hear your heart and your jugular was right under my mouth. It was too much."

"You weren't sure if you wanted to eat me or make love to me?"

He winces. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Why? It's who you are. We have to allow for it, just like we have to allow for the fact I can't feel below the waist. We talked about this last night too. We'll work it out, Edward; it may take longer but we'll figure out what's okay, and what's dangerous. Slow and steady wins the race."

He can't help but grin down at her. "All right." His face turns stern. "But no biting."

"No biting. Me or you."

He sits back on his haunches, still straddling her and looking down. The cold air and his cool body have raised her nipples against the fabric of her ivory nightdress and in the light from the lamp, he can see a hint of pink skin. Buttons secure the gown's center and he undoes the top one like he might untie the ribbon on a present. "Is this all right?"

"You can touch me however you'd like to." Her own hands move up and down his forearms as his fingers unfasten the rest of the buttons down to the vicinity of her stomach. Last night he touched her breasts, but never opened her pajama top. He's not seen her naked yet. Now the narrow river of pale skin covering her breastbone beckons to him; it rises and falls with her breath and there is a little mole about an inch below her right clavicle. He bends to kiss it, then licks the skin around it. "That feels nice," she whispers.

Using his nose, he pushes the right edge of her gown aside. The elastic helps tug it off so that her breast is freed. Sitting up again, he pulls her up as well so that his legs envelope her hips and her weight is braced against his heels like a little seat for her. He moves the other side of her gown down so both breasts are free, then studies them while she studies him. Each woman's breasts are unique and while bilateral, are rarely perfect matches. Her right is slightly larger but not disproportionately so, and the weight of them is to the outside so they don't make much natural cleavage. The areolas are more oval than round, a deep rose with small nipples. She's never borne nor nursed a child. A few little dark hairs halo each. He's no real judge of size, but when younger, she'd had a shallow chest. Maturity and extra pounds have given her _breasts_. He felt the soft weight of them last night but to see them . . . he lifts his right hand to cup the left, passing just his thumb over the nipple, which puckers further. "Do they meet with your approval?" she asks. It's playful. She's not really nervous of his opinion and it makes him smile.

"Oh, yes. Lovely. You're lovely."

Leaning forward, she presses her breast into his palm. "The expression on your face is priceless." She kisses him.

"That's good?" he murmurs, moving his lips over hers.

"Oh, yes. You looked mesmerized."

"Pretty much sums it up," he replies, his focus commanded by her mouth, tongue and the weight of her breast in his hand. He moves his other hand to her right breast and plays with both. This is heaven. She must think so too, as she murmurs approval and her hands are all over his upper arms and shoulders and chest. Her thumbs find his nipples and his erection stiffens to the point it's uncomfortable sitting straddle-legged like this. He wants her so badly, and he needs to lay her down again so he can stretch out.

They rearrange themselves. She lets him help her and he's grateful; lust makes him impatient. On her back again, her freed breasts call to him and he kneads them gently, teasing nipples with his forefinger and thumb, tweaking a little. She's starting to squirm and her lips are parted as she breathes through her mouth. "Men like to look," she says, watching his face.

He'd blush if he could. "And how many men have you known on which to base that opinion?"

"I don't require a private personal sample," she says, gasping when he tugs on one. "The porn industry makes a killing off the fact men like to look."

His nose wrinkles. "I don't look at porn."

"Really? You may be the only male alive then who hasn't googled for porn. No X-Tube for Edward?"

"Bella! I'm sure Carlisle hasn't looked either!" He says this because he feels a little odd . . . and because he's lying. Not that he's actually _looked_, at least not on a regular basis, but he does know what X-Tube is, and not just from the minds of others.

She's giggling now, and squirming under his attention. Both her arms go up to wrap around his neck and pull him in to kiss. "You really are my Victorian prince," she says.

"Would you rather," he asks past kisses and giggles, "have me looking at porn on the internet" -- kiss -- "or look at you?"

"I'd much rather you look at me," she replies. "And taste."

"I can do that."

And he does, mouth closing over one rose nipple. She half-laughs, half squeals. And if this isn't nearly as intense as the previous Sunday, it's much less dangerous for her. He loves the sound of her racing heart and the feel of her hard nipple in his mouth, soft skin molding beneath. This is good. This is fun. He feels neither shamed nor out of control, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks this is what sex is supposed to be like. Play. Delight. Even a little laughter. He's still very hard inside his scrub pants, but concentrating on her gives him a focus outside his own body even while heightening his arousal. He can feel her hands on the small of his back, then cupping his bottom to pull him close against her leg. He knows she can't feel it but she knows he can, and she's giving him permission to push and rock and thrust. Her fingers slide back up his belly to his own chest, roaming around the skin until he feels warm again although he long since threw off the heated blanket. His ears pounds with the sound of her heartbeat and he's suckling and licking and moving back and forth to give due attention to each breast while she twists underneath him. "Gentle," she says. "Gentle."

He lets up a little on mouthing her. "Tell me if I get too rough."

"I just did."

"Yeah, I know -- I'm reinforcing that."

Speaking is good. Speaking helps him focus better, not get so lost in the blood-heat. It keeps his head above lust's waterline but his lower body is tensing as he pushes into her thigh again and again, and the sound of her whines and the squirming of her upper body is driving him crazy. "What do you want me to do?" he asks between licks.

"Take your pants off."

"What?"

"Take your pants off, Edward. Let me touch you back. Let me look at you."

He tries to hide his shock. Men are supposed to like looking; good girls aren't. _How . . . antiquated,_ he scolds himself in the very next thought -- but he's still shocked. "You want to see me?"

"Oh, _yes_," she gasps, and her hands are back at his waist, untying the drawstring on his scrubs and trying to push them down, but her arms are too short and she lacks leverage.

It's easy for him to scoot away, put a few inches between their bodies. "Can I turn off the light?"

"You can see in the dark, but I can't."

"Bella, I -- "

"I want to see you too." She draws a forefinger across one pec, watching his muscle flinch. "You're beautiful, Edward."

"Not that part!"

"Yes, that part too." Her sudden grin blossoms impish, then she sobers. "I let you look at me. And I'll take off my nightgown too, if it makes you feel better. I'm not nearly as nice to look at as you are, but what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, I suppose."

He can see a certain tightness around her eyes and understands. Her shoulders and arms are toned, and if her breasts may carry weight, they benefit from her manual wheelchair. They're still perky and round -- no sag. He knows her legs won't look like that. He doesn't care. He loves Bella because she's Bella, and he wants to see all of Bella because he loves her.

Perhaps she feels the same. It can go both ways. "I'll help you with the gown," he says, and tugs on fabric, pulling it up to her waist as she pulls the bed sheet over her lower body. He doesn't object, just helps her get the gown over her head until she's clothed in nothing except the silky pale blue t-shirt fabric of her bedsheets, and a red blanket. Her skin is very pale, like mother-of-pearl. "Your turn," she says. Her dark eyes are huge.

Standing, his back to her, he pushes the scrub pants down to his ankles and steps out of them.

"You're not wearing underwear," she says, amused.

"Not much point," he replies, and turns.

She breathes in and her eyes travel from his face and shoulders down. He makes himself stand there and let her look, just as she'd let him look at her breasts earlier, but embarrassment has wilted him so he doesn't jut quite as proudly, mostly just sticks straight out looking ridiculous. The more he thinks about that, the lower he sinks. She holds out a hand to him and gratefully, he darts under the covers with her. Rolling on her side, she sets her free hand on his hip, rubbing gently up and down. The warmth of her palm and the love in her eyes (which are on his face now, not his groin) remedy his wilting problem. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Yes," he manages, although he's nervous. "You let me touch you." But no other hand has ever touched his prick and he's as excited as he is anxious. She doesn't grab him immediately but takes her time, letting fingers trace the S-curve of his hips and thread through the rusty bush of his pubic hair. Her knuckles brush against the side of his prick and he gasps, his eyes shutting. He feels her lean in to kiss his brows and eyelids.

"You okay?"

"Yes." _Talk,_ he reminds himself. _Keep talking._ "I'm good." His throat closes on that and he swallows. It sounds loud. So does her breath as her hand reaches his base and wraps around him. Hot, hot -- her palm feels so _hot_. He makes a sound like a whine and bucks into her grip as she lets her fingers slide up the length of him, then cover the head. "Bella . . . "

_Down._ Fast. He thrusts up. "Oh God!" he mutters and she kisses his brow right between the eyes. His lids pop open and he stares at her, a little stunned, a little awed. She's smiling.

"Feel good?"

"_Yessss,_" he hisses. Her fingers trail ticklish fire back up the shaft and cover the head again, then _down_ fast and hard for a second time. _Amazing._ He jerks in response. "Won't last long!"

"That's okay. Keep looking at me, Edward. We're fine."

Only belatedly does he realize she means that he's not a breath away from biting her this time -- but biting her isn't his immediate need. They're past that. At some point, two roads diverged in a yellow wood and he took the one less traveled by. The satisfaction he seeks has nothing to do with bloodthirst.

Her hand is moving up again, teasing the big vein on the underside with her thumb, then his toes curl when she reaches the dip in the flare around the crown. She rubs it back and forth, back and forth while her fingers circle the urethral slit, drawing lines of fire over his most sensitive spots. It's almost too intense to bear and he grits his teeth, his body quivering. "Your skin is impossibly smooth," she says. "But there's no pre-cum."

"Don't make any," he says, dragging his brain back from ecstacy enough to reply. "Don't cry, don't sweat -- none of that."

"Do you want me to use some lube?"

He's almost too far gone to be shocked -- almost. "You _have_ some?"

He hears the laughter in her voice. "It's sometimes necessary with SCI. It's in the bathroom in the bottom right vanity drawer. It'll feel nicer, I promise."

Maybe so, but he really, _really_ doesn't want to stop. "Next time." He starts pushing against her palm. "Harder!" he begs. "_Please_ -- harder!"

She obliges, dispensing with the tease to pump hard as requested. Her grip is firm but far from enough, and excited past propriety, he grabs himself, lacing his fingers through hers so he can thrust into their combined grip. Electricity slides all under his skin and sets off bursts in his balls and his chest, in the pit of his stomach and the backs of his knees. He knows he's whining and doesn't care, just speeds up their hands. He feels her trying to pull away and some dim part of him realizes he must be hurting her so he lets her hand go. At this point, her touch alone is enough. He's making high-pitched gasps as he grabs the edges of the pillow behind his head and bucks wildly, legs tensed. He's almost there, almost there. His groin is on fire and it feels like it's _pulsing_. This is the most consuming thing he's ever experienced. "Ohgodohgodohgod, Belllllaaaah . . . "

He lets go, arching up further, and shouts something unintelligible while his world explodes. Her hand stays firm around him, stroking him through it.

The body shudders and aftershocks go on for a while until he relaxes finally. His body is molten gold, pooled on the sheets. "Did I hurt you?" he whispers, suddenly terrified.

"No," she tells him, releasing his rapidly softening prick to roll atop of his chest. "I'm just fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes. You got a little rough but as soon as I wiggled my hand, you let me go. The pillow wasn't so lucky."

"What?" His eyes open and he realizes the light is still on but he's looking through _white_.

Feathers.

He tore the pillow.

Embarrassed, he jerks up to stare around. Feathers are _every_where and Bella is laughing. But she's unharmed. He didn't hurt her. She made him come and he didn't hurt her. He laughs too and flops back again, then tickles her in a sea of goose down until she's giggling hysterically. When they can't laugh any more and she's panting and pink from exertion, they lay side-by-side and hold hands.

Love, he thinks, shouldn't be desperate. It should be giggles and joy and a bed of white feathers. They cover her naked skin like a gown.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, a little nod to _BD_ with the feathers, but also a reversal of attitude there. Also, a reversal in her attitude towards marriage from that shown in _Eclipse_, but remember, she's been married once already.

Also, on both my LJ gallery and my profile page on ff-net, I have an image of the ring. It's _not_, I know, the official marketing tie-in release, and it's silver, not gold, but it is one jeweler's version and I like it better. It looks more authentically antique and not (honestly) as cheap as the official version.

And B3j02 asked for a special shout-out to Tasha! I hope this chapter makes you feel better, bb!

Thanks -- as ALWAYS -- to all you loverly people who write reviews. They are very appreciated.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes:** Bella has a chat about futures and logistics with her new "sisters."

An explanation/apology in advance. This chapter took longer than usual because it went through several incarnations. I actually planned to post Sunday, then Tuesday, but here it is Thursday evening! I'm going on a mini-cruise this weekend with friends -- which means I won't be around until Sunday. I may have some online time but, you know -- BOAT. Not exactly wireless territory. LOL! I debated waiting until Sunday night to post, but I'm behind so I'm going ahead. That means you may find more typos than usual. Please forgive.

BUT of more general concern ... **I'm going to beg for "reply amnesty."** I LOVE reviews and y'all know I reply to them regularly, but I'm already behind on some that came in while working on this -- plus any for this new chapter. SO -- this one time -- please accept my thanks more generally and in advance. I'll READ every single review as usual, but I'll only answer those with a question or something really specific I want/need to reply to. As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your enthusiasm and wonderful, terrific comments! You're DA BOMB. [[huggles everybody]]

* * *

Bella feels powerful. Bella feels ecstatic. Bella is on top of the world.

And after a whole day out shopping in the sun, followed by the exertion of laughing her head off while Edward tickled her unmercifully, Bella is very, very _tired_. When Edward relents at last and lets her rest in the crook of his arm, snuggled up against his solid bulk, she closes her eyes -- just for a minute . . .

. . . and opens them again as the sun streams into the bedroom. It's not only morning, it's probably nearing noon and Edward has to go into work today at 7 for the night shift, which means leaving Helen before 5. "Oh, God," she mutters, feeling horrible. "I fell asleep on you."

"Both literally and figuratively," he replies, but doesn't sound upset. "You were pretty tired." His hand smooths down the curve of her spine where she rests (naked) on her belly. He must have moved her off of him during the night into a more comfortable position. He also cleaned up the feathers. Now, his fingers don't hesitate over the scar tissue at the base of her spine, souvenirs from the injury and operation. But she flinches. "Relax," he mutters, kissing her shoulder. "Let me touch you. Your skin is silk. You always had the nicest skin." She doesn't argue, knowing she's lucky in that respect. Even as a teen she escaped battles with blemishes, and if she was never terribly keen on her hair's color nor her ghost paleness, she must admit she's been blessed with a clear complexion and healthy waves. It makes up, she supposes, for the parts of her that are less than perfect.

He's kissing his way from the nape of her neck down her back as if he sees no faults at all. Head turned to the side, she watches him from one eye as he kneels above her atop the blankets, a leg to either side of her hips. He's naked too still, and if she can't twist her neck quite far enough to see _that_ part of his anatomy, she still remembers how he felt in her grip last night, solid as stone and thick. She's quite smug, knowing she made him feel good. He's using his tongue on her skin now. It's wet and cool in the morning air, but she's still warm from sleep so she doesn't shiver. "We never got to finish with you last night," he whispers between licks and kisses.

"Mmm," she says, grinning. She likes playful Edward; playful Edward is a revelation, and she's glad, again, that she could give him what he needed last night. "You plan to remedy that?"

"Indeed, I do."

"Then give me a human moment first, Romeo. I promise to be back in two shakes of a dead bull's tail."

He laughs but straightens up. "Dead bulls don't shake their tails."

"So it might take a few minutes then," she admits. "Pull my chair around?"

He hesitates, then asks, "Would you let me just carry you? It'd be easier for you."

He understands the magnitude of what he's asking. Just as letting him do her exercises for her, letting him lift her naked body and carry her into the bathroom . . . she'll be completely at his mercy, naked and vulnerable. Abruptly, she recalls the night before, Edward on _his_ back, equally vulnerable as he strained against her, seeking release. This is what constitutes love -- not the strengths, but the weaknesses and having somebody to trust with them. His ring rests on her hand now; it's time to trust him with her body. So she says, "Okay," and he rolls her onto her back, tossing the sheets clear and lifting her in his arms.

He kisses her forehead and looks at her face as he carries her in to settle her on the toilet with its rails, then puts toothpaste on her toothbrush and leaves it and her comb in easy reach. "I'll be right outside. Call me when you're finished." And he gives her privacy to take care of basic morning hygiene.

When she's finished, she doesn't call him immediately. Instead, she studies the ring on her hand with more care than she did last night. She hadn't wanted to make him self-conscious by ogling it, but in the bright glare of the bathroom fluorescents, she can see it much clearer and it truly is a stunning bit of craftsmanship. Nine little diamonds beveled in the classic diamond shape form a larger diamond oval framed by fine vintage Marcasite work. Of course, it wasn't 'vintage' when his mother had worn it. If none of the individual diamonds are large, they're certainly not chips either and she must have at least a carat and a half total on her hand -- probably more. Of course he could probably put three times that on her if he wanted to, but she likes _this_ ring. It's lovely, it fits her, it won't snag on things or interfere with her hand gloves -- and it was his mother's. It ties her not to vampire Edward but to human Edward -- an Edward who would have been lost to her if not for a quirk of fate that made Carlisle his physician on a muggy September in Chicago ninety-nine years ago.

Ninety-nine years. Almost a century. She's abruptly reminded of her conversation with Jasper months ago now. She is Edward's event horizon, and last night he finally pushed past the gravity of his old world without giving up his essential self. He didn't freeze in the past. He let her love him into their future.

Smiling, she calls out, "I'm finished!"

It's not Edward who opens the door, it's Alice with a robe draped over her arm. She grins at Bella's started look. "We kicked Edward out," she explains.

"We?" is all Bella can manage.

"Rose and I want to see the ring. And you need to eat breakfast before Esme and Carlisle come back. They were over here before sunup, curious as cats, but we didn't tell them anything. We figured you and Edward will want to do that, but there are decisions to be made and plans to get off the ground."

While she's talking, she levers Bella up with one arm, helping her into the robe with the other, then switches arms to finish dressing her. Or at least, to make her marginally decent. Bella's brain is trying to catch up. "If Carlisle and Esme are coming, should I put on real clothes?"

"Oh, you can do that after you eat. Rose is impatient."

"Where's Edward?" Bella asks.

"At Emmett and Jasper's mercy." Alice sounds full of mischief. "Jasper will keep Emmett in line. Marginally."

Bella doesn't bother asking Alice how she knows about the ring -- that much is obvious -- but she does ask, "Did you know he was going to propose?"

"Well, yes, _eventually_ -- he's been mulling it over for a while -- but I didn't really foresee it coming last night until he did it. Split-second decision." She stops abruptly to hug Bella with all her considerable trademark enthusiasm. "I'm so glad you're my sister finally!"

Laughing, Bella hugs her back. "I'm glad you're mine."

"Bring her out here and share!" Rose calls from the bedroom beyond. Obediently, Alice scoops up Bella and practically dances out the wide door with her. Rose has the chair ready and she's smiling. However rare the expression on her face, when it's there, it's luminescent. "And she's been our sister for a while. Edward's not the only one with a claim on her."

Bella feels too warmed to be genuinely angry at having her morning reorganized. She can also smell breakfast. "Who cooked?"

"Emmett. He made an omelette before taking off with Edward." Of all the Cullens, even Esme, Emmett is best in the kitchen. He seems to enjoy cooking much like he enjoys constructing anything. His creativity expresses itself in the pragmatic and he often watches Bella when she cooks, learning the little touches that can take a dish beyond slavishly following a recipe to something delicious.

Now, Bella wheels into her spot at the table while Rose gets her coffee and Alice fetches the plate, kept warm in the oven. She carries it over without a hot-pad. Plate deposited before her, Bella wastes no time digging in just as Rose and Alice waste no time grabbing her left hand to see the ring. "You don't need this hand to eat with," Rose tells her, then they oooh and aaaw appropriately.

If Bella isn't terribly girly, she has to admit, it's fun to have them to be giddy with. "It was his mother's," she explains around a bit of egg.

"It's absolutely beautiful, and it fits like it was made for you," Rose tells her.

"So can we have a Christmas Eve wedding?" Alice asks, practically bouncing on her toes.

"Alice, you know we can't have a _wedding_ at all -- not a formal one, anyway." Bella takes her hand back and swallows another bite. "There's Charlie to think about. It'd be cruel not to invite him but if we did, he'd surely recognize you. Even if we had a simple courthouse wedding instead of a big shindig, he'd still want to meet my new husband and if I avoided ever letting him do so, he'd get suspicious and be out here to investigate. He's a _cop_."

"Yes, yes, yes," Alice says, waving all this aside. "But that doesn't mean we can't have a wedding. You just can't make it legal, or at least not official. You could probably make it _legal_, since that would make things easier, and -- "

Reaching up, Rose slaps a hand over Alice's mouth. "What she means is that she wants to dress you up like a doll and stuff my house with poinsettias and holly and make the two of you read vows to each other in front of us and the Christmas tree. A family affair."

Bella looks from Rose to a fuming Alice and back to Rose. It's amusing to see the "sisters" act like sisters -- and to realize she, too, has a place in this constructed coven family. "I think we could probably do that," she agrees. "Although Christmas Eve isn't the best time. Remember, one of us has to staff the shelter from the 23rd till the 3rd." Their live-in resident, Madison, will be spending the holidays with her family, and if Bella, Rose, Alice and Esme all plan to split duty, a family ceremony, however informal, still requires all of them. "Maybe we could do it in early January? It's not like there's a rush, Al."

Alice seems unwilling to let go of the idea of a Christmas Eve ceremony of some sort. No doubt she thinks it romantic. "We'll schedule it for the afternoon when one of our volunteers can be there. I'm sure they'd be happy to fill in so we can have a 'family dinner.' Besides, the women at the shelter can manage just fine on their own for a handful of hours. They are adults." True enough, although for insurance purposes, the shelter needs a staff member present, especially overnight. More to the point, and despite the shelter's hidden location, the women feel more secure with somebody "official" there, and helping them to feel safe is a large part of what the shelter is about. Fighting Alice over the issue isn't worth it, though, and Bella knows Edward would like some sort of official commitment ceremony even if his family are the only witnesses.

"All right," she agrees. "We can do something that afternoon."

"Eeeeee!" And Alice _pounces_, hugging the stuffing out of Bella as if she were the velveteen bunny.

"This does," Rose says, interrupting Alice's glee-fest, "bring up the larger question of logistics." She's smiling faintly, but her eyes are serious. "A lot of logistics."

"I know." Bella shoves another bite of omelette into her mouth so she doesn't have to talk. She's been avoiding the logistics because they make her brain hurt. Alice plops down in the chair on Bella's other side again. She's gone from ecstatic to serious in a heartbeat. "What do you see?" Bella asks, curious and uneasy both.

But Alice only shakes her head. "I'm not seeing anything right now, Bella."

"You suddenly turned serious."

"That doesn't necessarily mean I'm having a vision. I _can_ be serious, you know."

Bella isn't sure that Alice is telling the complete truth, even while she also isn't lying. "Well, _I_ can see the future is suddenly looking really complicated." Bella pushes back her half-eaten food; she's no longer hungry.

"Don't be upset with us for tackling the logistics," Alice pleads.

"I'm not upset, I'm just -- "

"-- practicing avoidance," Rose finishes.

"I'm _not_ --" Rose's hiked eyebrow cuts her off. "Okay, maybe a little." Bella leaves half an inch of air between her thumb and forefinger in illustration. "But I'm not looking forward to weaving this web of lies. It's overwhelming, and I don't want anybody to get hurt -- not Edward, not my family . . ."

"Of course it's overwhelming if you try to tackle it all at once." Rose says this as if it were self-evident, and Bella supposes it is. "So lets start with the most basic details. Even if the two of you don't ever make your marriage public," Rose continues, "it would be wise to make it official. This is the family lawyer speaking. It simplifies everything from taxes to power of attorney for you," -- the unspoken being that Edward wouldn't ever need such an agent. "Trust me, it's perfectly possible to make things legal without necessarily having to announce it from the mountaintop. I'll draw up some papers for you. _Publicly_, Edward can continue to be whatever works best. Legally, he'll be your husband. It shouldn't matter but . . . you never know what'll happen."

"Well, Alice knows," Bella says, tilting her head in Alice's direction.

"Not always," Alice cautions. "Remember, I don't see everything." She still looks sombre. "I don't see accidents, for instance, until they happen."

"Like with Mark."

"Exactly."

"That reminds me," Rose says, reaching over to lay a hard, cool, perfectly manicured hand over Bella's rougher one. "Have you given any more thought to our conversation of Thursday night?"

Bella sits up and frees her hand. In truth, she hasn't. Too much has been happening. "Not really." She wants Rose to drop it like she did before . . . but it's clear she's not going to. Rose says nothing, just stares at Bella, and Alice neither intervenes nor asks what Rose means, so Bella assumes Rose has talked to her. "Everything last night went fine," Bella points out.

"We know." At Bella's dismayed look, she adds, "We weren't listening in. After years of living with other vampires" -- she nods to Alice but implies all the Cullens thereby -- "we know how to have selective hearing. More or less. We tune out the 'normal,' but we'd have heard -- and intervened -- if something had sounded . . . fishy."

Bella knows this is pragmatic but still doesn't like it, and her uncertainty leaves her repeating, "Everything went fine."

Rose doesn't reply. She's back to staring, refusing to let Bella wriggle off the hook again, and Bella knows she's been sidestepping this question because it touches on a much broader question.

Does she want to be a changed even if it weren't for an emergency?

Once, she had -- desperately. She'd dreamed of spending an eternity with Edward, but she'd also been young with little life experience yet. She has a much better idea now of exactly what that would require her to give up. She's been asking questions. And if she told herself it was to understand _them_ better -- and it was -- it's also helped her more fully understand life as an immortal. What _is_ it like to watch life go by, yet be forever forbidden to participate as one's real, whole self? To play a continual game of seeming without being? To watch family and friends age and die, yet be forbidden ever to speak to them again? Becoming a vampire is lonely.

She would still have the Cullens. And she'd have Edward. But she has Edward and the Cullens now. She belongs to them and they to her, and if keeping their secret dictates changing what she is to them publicly on a periodic basis, she doesn't have to _give them up_. Becoming like them _would_ require her to give up her mother and Phil, Charlie, Martha and Jada and Rosa and their kids -- even friends and colleagues like Lorraine. Not to mention her career. To become a vampire would cut her off from the flesh-and-blood ties of her humanity which she's come to cherish. Not to become a vampire means only that she'll age. That no longer scares her, and apparently it never scared Edward either. He'd been the one resisting even the thought of changing her before. He'd asked, "Isn't it enough to have a long and happy life with me?"

Yes. Yes, it is enough. She's come to see how little appearances matter. The body can break -- hers did -- and it will age. But the heart and soul . . . they're what counts. She wants to love Edward's heart and soul forever and ever, amen, but it's a human forever.

Abruptly, she realizes she hasn't figured in her paralysis -- whether becoming a vampire might let her walk again. Yet she's not sure it matters. It doesn't change the essential cost of immortality. Her family counts for more than her legs. She's learned to live without her legs. She doesn't think she could live without her family.

So no, she doesn't want to become a vampire, not like she did once. At 18, she'd thought 28 positively ancient. Being 28 has changed her perspective, like the difference in shadows between noon and three o'clock. At noon, they're short and hard with absolute lines. By mid-afternoon, they're long and softer at the edges, and sunset doesn't appear so frightening. After all, it's at sunset that the colors shine the most glorious.

Having this most basic question resolved in her own mind, Bella can more easily address what Rose actually asked her. Would Bella want to be changed if Edward accidentally bit her? That is somewhat different.

"What would _he_ do?" she blurts out now, startling both Alice and Rose, who haven't said a word, just waited as only vampires can wait -- completely still. "If Edward accidentally bit me and I died, what would he do?" She looks at Alice, because Alice would know, and not just because she can see the future.

Alice hesitates, frowning down at her hands, but her words are blunt and honest. "He'd probably find a way to end his own life."

"I thought he told me once that vampires can't commit suicide? Didn't Carlisle try?"

"He did, and we can't by normal means. But we can be killed and there are . . . ways . . . to get someone -- another vampire -- to kill us." As much as it dismays Bella to hear this, she appreciates Alice's honesty. She also recalls an old conversation with Edward about Romeo and Juliette. He'd confessed then his "contingency plans" if he'd failed to save her from James, how he wouldn't have wanted to exist in a world without her, and how -- and who -- he might have sought out to help him follow her in death. It had horrified her at the time, and horrifies her no less now.

"The Volturi," she whispers. "He'd go to the Volturi."

"How do you know about the Volturi?" Rose asks.

"A long time ago, after what happened with James, Edward told me that if he hadn't been able to save me, he'd have gone to the Volturi in order to 'irritate' them so they'd kill him."

Alice nods. "Edward can be extreme like that."

Bella is shaking her head. "No. He's not allowed to do that." Anger flashes through her. "I wasn't allowed to do it when Mark died. I wasn't allowed to just . . . give up. God knows, it would've been easier. I know how it hurts. I know _exactly_ how it hurts. But it's a coward's answer. And it's not fair."

Rose blurs into motion, slipping an arm around Bella to hug her close. "I know," she says. "But imagine if it was for your mistake that Mark had died? How much worse would that have been for you?" She lets Bella go and sits down again, pulling her chair as near as the wheels on Bella's chair will allow. "I'm not saying it would be right -- but I would understand. If I were to lose Emmett after so long together, I'm not sure I could learn to manage without him." A hiss from Alice makes Rose glance over and she shakes her head. Bella suspects they're talking so fast Bella can't make out what they're saying. Alice must be warning Rose about something. "Look, I don't mean to demean what you had with Mark" -- ah, Rose and her bluntness; that's what Alice was rebuking her for -- "but Emmett and I have celebrated our golden anniversary and a second silver on top of it. Imagine being with someone so long? If we were human and had spent that many years together, nobody would find it strange if one of us didn't long outlive the other. We're . . . we're _fused_. It's like that for a lot of vampire couples."

This is a new perspective for Bella. Edward always talked about vampire 'mates' and the rigidity of vampire natures, but when one simply considers the number of _years_ vampire couples spend together, their mutual devotion isn't so alien. She's reminded of a Ben Fold's song: _Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties, and one day passed away in his sleep, and his wife; she stayed for a couple of days, and passed away . . . I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong._ It's a devotion forged from a shared life, and that's magic enough.

Bella suspects Rose can see in her face that she finally _gets it_, and Rose continues, "Now imagine how I'd feel not only if I lost Emmett, but if it was for my mistake that Emmett died? I'd want to die too. I couldn't bear that. It's not easy for vampires to find mates in the first place. Add into that Edward's ability to read minds and the difficulty multiplies for him. You're a rare and precious thing to him, Bella -- somebody he can stand to be around!"

Rose's expression is rueful, and Bella finds it notable that it's _Rose_, not Alice, explaining all this. Alice just looks on. But it makes sense, too. Rose really IS the most like Edward in fundamental personality type -- just as stubborn, just as loyal and fierce, just as superior towards others at times, just as committed to what she thinks is right (even if it's wrong), and just as fond of her familiar routines -- a brilliant mix of virtues and vices. Alice may be closer to Edward emotionally, Esme may love him best, and Carlisle may be the one Edward admires . . . but Rose is the one who -- when she tries -- actually understands best where he's coming from. That might also explain why Emmett and Edward are close.

"So you think I should just . . . let the venom do it's work if he bites me?" Bella asks now.

"No," Rose says and Alice is shaking her head too. "What we think _doesn't matter_. What Edward would do if you do choose death _doesn't matter_. We want to know what _you_ want. Do you want to become a vampire? Even if . . . " she taps the chair ". . . immortality comes with this?"

The very idea startles Bella as she realizes she's assumed something. "Wouldn't the venom heal me?"

Rose and Alice exchange a look. "We don't know," Rose confesses. "I asked Edward, but he didn't know either, and he asked Carlisle -- who doesn't know. Your spinal injury is healed, and that's the problem. We don't know if a _healed_ wound would be affected by venom. Edward . . . thinks maybe not."

"Alice?" Bella asks.

"I can't see it," Alice tells her. Her expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "You haven't made a decision, so I can't see it."

"Can't you see it if I'm deciding to decide?"

Her smile is wry. "It doesn't work that way. I can't see it unless you _do_ decide, and I don't know if you can decide without knowing, can you?"

Bella realizes that's true. But -- Edward's _life_? She's already adjusted to facing the rest of hers in the chair -- how would immortality change about that?

Yet it does. A paralyzed vampire . . . how would she hunt? She'd be even more dependent on others than she is now and it brings all her buried rage at fate back to the surface. She's adjusted. She's accepted the reality. She's happy most of the time -- sometimes frustrated, but mostly happy. Yet the thought of forever in the chair is more than she can bear. Bitterness and anger might corrode her spirit past cleansing and right now, every cell in her body seems to be turning itself inside out in rejection of the mere idea. She'd never realized how much it's mattered to her that -- eventually -- her spirit would escape this broken physical prison. It might take death to accomplish it, but she's counted on that subconsciously. Forever is . . . _forever_.

Yet . . . Edward's _life_? "I'd rather die," she admits, "than be stuck in this chair for all eternity." She looks from Alice to Rose. "But Edward is precious to me." And she's suddenly angry that the knowledge he'd end his own life without her in it might pressure her to live caged. Whatever Rose just explained, Edward is still putting her in a position of choosing to become a vampire or killing him by her refusal -- all despite the fact she knows he'd probably urge her _not_ to change. "I can't bear the thought that he'd kill himself out of grief or guilt. I understand what you were telling me, Rosalie, but Edward and I _haven't_ been together for fifty years and then some. It's not the same. And I _do_ know what it's like to lose a spouse and survive it. Not just survive it, but learn to live again. That's what Mark would have wanted -- and it's what I want for Edward. If I do live to be ninety and die quietly in my bed, and he chooses to follow . . . we'd have had a lifetime together. It might not be a typical one, but it would be what most people get. I wouldn't fight his choice then. But if it were tomorrow? He'd follow me, wouldn't he? I can't let him do that." She stops and squeezes her eyes shut, then gives her answer. "So yes. If he bites me, let the Change happen."

"Bella," Rose sternly warns, "You know damn well you can't bend important decisions to please Edward or you'll wind up resenting him."

Rose is right, but . . . "Being with somebody means compromise. It's not all about you anymore."

"True," Alice agrees, speaking up again after a long silence. "But if you bend too far, if you have to go past what you can bear -- that's not compromise. It's surrender. And Rose is right -- you'd resent him, and he'd feel guilty and then you'd feel guilty for making him feel guilty . . . It'd be a mess. Love can survive a lot, but not that. The right person frees you to be more yourself, not less. If you work through to what really matters, the walls should disappear. If they don't, there are serious problems."

Alice is, Bella thinks, surprisingly wise, like Jasper. Her comments about compromise remind Bella of last night. What Edward had _really_ needed wasn't anything Bella had minded giving. "I need to talk to Edward about this." She looks up at Alice and sees . . . something . . . in her eyes. "You knew I'd say that."

It's Rose who answers. "This is a decision best made by both of you -- but he's not allowed to guilt you into a choice, Bella -- either to become a vampire or _not_ to become one. And you're not allowed to guilt him, either. He may drive me crazy sometimes, but I do love him."

Rose might have said more, but the front door opens, interrupting them. Esme calls, "Hello? Good morning? Is Bella up and about yet?"

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, I do realize Edward's words to Bella -- "Isn't it enough to have a long and happy life with me?" -- are from the film version of _Twilight_, not the book. He says something similar in the book but spread across a longer exchange so I opted to go with the condensed movie dialogue because it fit better. If the slight difference really bothers you, chalk it up to Bella's imperfect human memory. :-)

The Ben Fold's song referred to is "The Luckiest." It's one of those amazingly sweet love songs that manages not to be sappy. You can listen to it on YouTube, just search it. I can SO see Edward playing this for Bella (Ben Folds is even a pianist).

Last, the Bellie Awards are open (www-dot-thecatt-dot-net). As a reader/judge for them last time, I'd like to promote them again. Go over and take a look around. Nominations are open until the 24th of June (2009).


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes:** _Edward_ plays hooky? What's the world coming to? (Lemons!)

Sorry for the delay, but this part is looong (and I think it's the part some of you've been waiting for). I needed to ask my sis some questions, then have her look at sections of it. So between that, and the length, it took two weeks.

* * *

"So . . ." Emmett practically drawls as pure mischief glints in his eye. He and Jasper have manhandled Edward outside at Rose and Alice's insistence and now bookend him in Rosalie's garage, preventing escape.

"So . . . ?" Edward prompts, although he really doesn't want to hear the rest of the question.

"Still holding your V-card, little brother?"

Emmett ducks and dances back before Edward can deck him. Jasper doesn't intervene, but Edward also doesn't follow through on the attack. "A _gentleman_" -- Edward stresses it through clenched teeth -- "doesn't kiss and tell."

"Yeah, well, a _gentleman_ also wouldn't snoop mentally on his family members," Emmett retorts, "but you do that on a regular basis." And while it's said lightly, there's still a bit of friendly malice behind it.

"I don't _try_ to -- "

"Bullshit," Emmett says, laughing. "We know you mostly can't help it . . . but don't try to tell me you don't snoop on purpose sometimes. We" -- he motions back and forth between himself and Jasper -- "know better."

"It's not a crime to be curious, Edward," Jasper adds. He's grinning widely too. Both of them are enjoying this far, far too much Edward thinks.

"And the two of you were sort of, ah, _loud_ last night," Emmett adds.

Edward tries to deck him again, actually lunging forward this time, but Jasper grabs him from behind as Emmett cackles like a crazy crow. "You were _listening in_?" Edward demands, mortified.

"It is our HOUSE," Emmett reminds him. "And it's not like you haven't been in the same house while the rest of us had fun. We weren't _listening in_, just . . . being aware." Emmett grows serious. "If you ever, you know, lose it -- call if you can. We'll hear."

And that fast, all Edward's irritation dies. "Thanks," he says, and means it. Emmett might tease, and Jasper too, but both would cut off their right hands to save Bella. They know how dangerous the game is that Edward and Bella are playing, even if they've never tried it themselves. Then he admits, "We haven't, ah, gone quite that far yet."

"Really?" Emmett is grinning. "Sounded like _you_ had fun last night."

"Emmett," Jasper warns before Edward's annoyance can bubble over. Then he turns to Edward. "I can't imagine having the control you have, to be able to get intimate with a human."

"I love her," Edward says. That sums up everything for him. "You wouldn't bite Alice if she was human."

Jasper shakes his head ruefully. "I _hope_ I wouldn't. But Emmett and I just wanted to let you know we've got your back -- and for more than just stopping you if something goes awry. If you _do_ have questions about, ah, the physical -- ask. Don't let your pride get in the way. We may give you hell sometimes, but we really do want you, and Bella, to be happy. And mind-reader though you may be, not everything can be learned second-hand. We wanted to make it clear that you can ask us and we won't tease."

"Much," Emmett adds and Jasper -- quick even for a vampire -- boxes his ear.

"We won't tease at all," Jasper corrects.

Edward is torn between embarrassment and gratitude. The three of them aren't often serious like this, which lends impact when they are, and he knows even Emmett would give straightforward advice if he asked. "One thing you need to think about," Emmett adds as he runs a finger along the curves of the 1965 Shelby Daytona that Rose is working on, "is what you'd do if -- "

"No," Edward interrupts, aware of what Emmett plans to say even before he says it. "My answer to that hasn't changed. More to the point, I don't think _Bella_ wants that anymore, and as I told Rosalie, I'm afraid Changing her would condemn her to that damn chair forever."

"But if Bella _did_ want it?" Jasper intervenes. "Would you agree?"

There's _something_ here, something beneath the question, but it eludes Edward's mental grasp like a doe. "Why do you want to know?" he challenges.

"Because she's a grown-up," Jasper replies levelly.

And that shuts down Edward. He can only frown. Jasper is right, and it's what Edward has been struggling to adjust to. Bella isn't the girl he fell in love with. She's the woman he's _in_ love with -- and he likes it. He likes that he can depend on her sometimes. He likes that she doesn't just knuckle under to his opinions, although she does always listen to them. What they have is give-and-take, and if he was taught as a boy that good husbands protect and provide for their wives, he saw mutual respect between his parents even if his memory of that is dim. And he's seen it, too, between Carlisle and Esme. "If Bella really wanted it -- and I was sure she did -- then . . . I'd do what she wanted," Edward admits now. "But I don't think she wants it. She's never asked -- and before, she did. She begged for it, in fact."

Jasper only nods. "I don't think she wants it either, not in the normal course of things. But . . . I wanted to know if you could let her make her own choices now."

Edward bristles. "I've learned a thing or two in ten years."

Emmett slaps a hand over his chest as if he's received a mortal blow. "SHOCK!" he says, cutting the tension between Edward and Jasper with humor. "_EDWARD_ has admitted to learning something new!"

"Shut up," Edward says, but he's no longer angry -- more embarrassed because, joking or not, Emmett has a point. He can be a little stubborn when he gets a notion in his head.

The three of them banter further while looking over Rose's new project until they hear a car turn off the highway onto the gravel road and all three troop out. It's Esme's truck. If not somebody most would expect to find behind the wheel of a big flatbed Ford, Esme needs it for her business. Carlisle rides shotgun and waves to Edward, Emmett and Jasper as Esme parks. Carlisle's expression is amused. "So just what _were_ you after last night?" he asks as he gets out.

Edward would blush if he could. Jasper and Emmett stay mum thankfully as Edward answers, "Ah, it's probably best if Bella and I explain together." Esme has come around beside Carlisle and takes his arm. Edward can see in both their minds that they suspect at least the gist, but Edward wants to stand at Bella's side as they make their announcement. "Come in," he says now.

Esme beats them all to the door, opening it without knocking to call, "Hello? Good morning? Is Bella up and about yet?"

"We're in here!" Alice calls and the men follow Esme, all trooping into the kitchen where Bella -- in a bathrobe -- sits at the breakfast nook with Rose and Alice. Her hair is still rumpled and Edward thinks she looks unspeakably dear. She gives him a special little smile and the familiar thrill races along every nerve in his body like wildfire.

He loves this woman to distraction.

Going to the table, he playful unseats Alice so he can sit beside Bella. Reaching over, he takes her left hand and runs a thumb over the ring while they stare at each other a moment. His insides quiver from the strength of his joy and he wishes (yet again) that he could read her mind. They haven't discussed how to announce this, what to say, how to phrase it. He doesn't want to muck it up. She just grins wider, then turns to face the rest of the Cullens, all gathered around, and holds out their joined hands so that hers is up, showing the ring.

It's not news to Rose or Emmett, Alice or Jasper, but Esme drags in a startled gasp and grabs Bella's hand, pulling it up to see better although that's more ingrained habit than need. "So we get to plan a wedding?" she asks while her mind races with ideas. She's elated and for once harbors no resentment towards Bella. Much of her resentment arose, in fact, from her protectiveness of Edward. She didn't think Bella had treated him fairly because Esme would forgive him anything. That's what mothers do. And while he needs that sort of love in his life, he also needs Bella's -- one that expects things of him and _won't_ forgive him just anything, at least, not without restitution. Real forgiveness grows only after genuine repentance. He repented and proved he meant it, and earned his second chance. She didn't give it to him from love and pity, so he's not walking around now with all that guilt on his back, and the past isn't something they don't talk about, but something they _can_. He's learned to trust himself again. And so has she.

Now, he pulls her hand out of Esme's grasp gently, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the back of it. "A wedding's not necessary," he says, "and a public wedding's not possible. The ring's more than -- " but he never gets the thought finished because Alice is already talking.

"Christmas Eve! We're having a little family commitment ceremony on Christmas Eve. I've already got tons of ideas and we can consult later on how to lay things out in Rose's living room."

"If you rip anything up or pull anything out, you're putting it back," Rose warns.

Edward is more annoyed than shocked at Alice's interruption. "We don't -- "

"Yes, you do," Alice responds before he can even finish, adding, "I know you do." And she's right. He does want a wedding of some sort, but he's worried about Bella's reaction. Bella just sits placidly beside him, however. She doesn't look upset.

"We're just talking about something for the family," Alice says again. "A private ceremony. Bella's fine with a private ceremony."

"An unofficial reading of the Banns?" Carlisle asks.

"Something like that," Alice agrees.

"Are you?" Edward asks Bella. "Okay with this?" She responds with a shrug and little grin.

"Can you imagine how lovely it'll be with all the Christmas lights -- " Alice starts again.

"Oh!" Esme says, hand over her mouth. "No offense Rose, but we have to do this at the cabin! On the back porch overlooking the river! All those lights reflecting on the water? It'll look like fairyland!"

"Yes!" Alice agrees, face lighting up as her internal visions change. "That'll be perfect!" She and Esme are looking at each other with huge smiles as both start talking at vampire speed; Emmett throws in a few additional suggestions.

Edward feels like he's been run over by the truck of his excited family. "Wait!" He glances at Bella in alarm. "Are you _really_ okay with this?"

"I told you Alice would want to have her fun," she reminds him. "I'm okay with it if you are. It's not the ceremony I object to, it's the public aspect of it. We can't blow your cover."

And finally, his happiness boils over. Words are insufficient so he leans in to give her a peck on the lips as Carlisle squats down in front of them. He takes Bella's hand -- still in Edward's -- and squeezes it. "I've thought of you as part of us for a long time, Bella, but it pleases me no end to see it made formal, and to wish you both the best." Then he kisses Bella's forehead in blessing. She's a little teary-eyed, Edward notes.

Jasper steps forward, too. Unlike Emmett, he's staying out of the planning session and now bends to hug Bella. He doesn't say anything -- probably because he's holding his breath as getting that close to her neck is difficult for him. Edward can hear his thoughts: _Don't bite, don't bite, don't bite ..._ When he lets her go, he backs up hastily but smiles and offers a thumbs up before returning to Alice's hyperactive, gesticulating side.

"So," Bella says when they have a moment to themselves, "shall we leave them to their plotting so I can shower" -- she gestures vaguely at the knot by the kitchen bar -- "or join them?"

"Depends," he replies, his own grin growing. His heart is light. "Do you want a say in the plotting?"

"Would I actually have one?"

Edward laughs. "Good question. I'm not sure, at this rate!"

"How about veto power? We let them plot to their hearts' content, but we get to veto anything we don't like?"

"Sounds like a plan," he answers and gets to his feet, crossing to the huddle around the bar. "We're kicking you out. Take the plotting to Esme's, or Alice's shop. I have to go to work in six hours and I'm not sharing Bella any more. Plot as much as you like, but we claim veto rights."

"Whoooo!" Emmett says, raising both hands and wiggling his fingers at Edward in some bizarre warding gesture. "You do know, Eddie, in _my_ day, it was a tradition for the groomsmen to steal the bride on her wedding night . . ."

"Steal Bella and I'll tear you head off," Edward replies pleasantly, although he's not entirely joking. It causes the rest of them to burst into laughter as they head for the exit. Alice calls over her shoulder, "Dress shopping tomorrow, Bella!"

"I've got clothes, Alice!" Bella calls back. "Even nice dresses!"

"You're not wearing a dress you've worn before for this!" Rose objects. "And be glad Emmett and I are giving up the house for a while."

Edward follows them to the door -- to be certain they're really leaving -- but before Alice joins Jasper in their car, she skips back to him and grabs his hands. She's _beaming_. "Bella will ask for something. It's okay to agree. In fact, it's probably a good idea. And don't feel guilty. You deserve it."

Then she's gone -- in the car before he can ask what she meant. Her thoughts are opaque.

Puzzled, he returns inside but Bella isn't in the kitchen and he can hear the sound of her shower being cranked on. Briefly, he considers joining her but despite the fact she let him carry her into the bathroom that morning, he doubts either of them is ready for quite so much nudity yet without the shield of bed sheets. He still feels shy with her, and knows that, for all her confidence and attempts to hide it, she fears the sight of her crippled body will repel him. He reads that not in her mind, but in a certain wariness about her eyes.

So he finds some votive candles and lights them, placing them around the room. Partly, he seeks a romantic ambience, but also thinks it might help having other strong scents in the bedroom. He doesn't want a repeat of last Sunday, but if he has his way this afternoon, the air will be rife with her blood scent and arousal. He doesn't like scented candles -- they smell artificial to him -- and that slightly unpleasant odor might counterbalance delicious Bella. Once the candles are ready, he closes the windows to dim the light, strips, and climbs into bed to wait. He likes the feel of her soft blue sheets on his bare skin. He pulls up the heated blanket and turns it on in order to warm himself for her.

He feels . . . peaceful. His mind keeps trying to tell him he should feel nervous or embarrassed or even ashamed. But he doesn't. He honestly doesn't. Instead, he feels a little excited, but mostly content. At some point in the night while he watched Bella sleep, he came to terms with the idea of being a married man without a wedding. Whatever little (or big) party Alice plans to throw, whatever promises they exchange before their family on Christmas Eve, he's married. Last night he got _married_ and right now, he's lying naked in bed, waiting for his _wife_. The mere thought of it makes him grin and wiggle down further under the blanket to soak in the heat better. Acceptance is a process, he thinks.

Bella takes her time, and he tries to guess what she's doing from the sounds he can pick out over the rain of water. When it finally shuts off, she still takes a while before emerging wrapped again in her fluffy robe, her hair wet and her skin flushed. She pauses halfway to the bed and glances around, obviously amused by candlelight at noon, but says only, "I like it."

She parks her chair on her side of the bed and he starts to rise to help her in, but she shakes her head. As much as he likes helping her, and as gracious as she is about being helped, sometimes she needs to do things on her own. So he waits as she cranks around the pull bar that's usually pushed back against the wall. Gripping it, she levers herself onto the mattress as he throws back the blankets for her. She slips her robe off her shoulders and he sucks in breath at the glimpse of skin all golden in the candlelight. Sitting up, he kisses the point of one shoulder as she shivers and laughs, letting him help her out of the terrycloth. They lie down then and he spoons up behind her, slipping an arm over her waist while she arranges her legs more neatly. For long minutes, they just snuggle. "When do you have to leave for work?" she asks.

"In a little over four hours."

She sighs, then twists her neck to look back and up at him. "Play hooky."

He blinks in surprise. "What?"

"Play hooky. Call in sick."

"But I'm not sick."

"You never get sick, but other people get sick -- other _humans_ get sick." She twists all the way onto her back so she can look up at his face. "You do get sick days, right?"

"Yes. Residency programs allow for them. Not a good idea to treat sick patients when you're sick too."

"So use one. I'm not ready to give you back to them. Play hooky tonight."

And he understands now what Alice had been referring to, and why she'd told him not to feel guilty because that's his first reaction. Calling in sick would be lying. Of course, he lies on a regular basis to conceal what he is, but this lie would stem purely from selfish motivations. He doesn't _need_ a sick day, and patients need him.

"Would you be able to concentrate tonight?" she asks him almost as if _she's_ the mind reader. "You'd be doing your patients a favor."

"Even distracted, my concentration is better than that of a lot of my sleep-deprived colleagues," he tells her -- which is true, but the protest sounds half-hearted.

He really wants to stay. Alice told him he should; she told him he deserved this. He just needs to be convinced. "Humans get sick, Edward. If you're never sick, that looks . . . odd."

True enough. He's wavering, but he needs . . .

"I want you to stay with me," she says.

. . . he needs that. It's not just his wants. _She_ wants him too. "All right," he agrees.

Her whole face lights up and she lifts her head to kiss his nose, then grabs the phone on her bedside table to hold it out to him. "Call them. Tell them you're not coming in tonight."

So he does, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand to sound a little stuffed up. She slaps a hand over her mouth, suppressing a giggle. Hanging up, he hands the phone back to her and she returns it to its cradle while he slides up behind her again, wrapping her up in his arms. For the next twenty-four hours and then some, she's completely his. He's never quite understood how two people could waste an entire day in bed, but he does now. He'll feed her, he'll be sure she has her necessary human moments including sleep, but he intends to keep her in bed all to himself.

He doesn't rush into anything. There's no pressure of a deadline and he's glad that he listened to Alice and agreed to call in "sick." They spend a long time just kissing, soft-lipped and close-mouthed, careful of his teeth but no less sensual for that -- maybe more sensual, in fact. Expectations are out the door. After all, there's no script for how a vampire makes love to a paraplegic, and he remembers the night before. It was _fun_. So this afternoon is giggles and snuggles and a slow build towards passion, and the fact that he _is_ a vampire and she _is_ a paraplegic matters a lot less than the fact he's Edward and she's Bella.

It's perfect. Because it's imperfect.

But he does have a mission, at least in his own mind. "You promised," he says as he kisses his way over her chin and down to her chest, "to show me, or tell me, what works for you. You said you can have an orgasm."

"Yes," she agrees, humming as his tongue slides over the swell of one breast to curl around her nipple. "Ah!" She holds his head to her. "That's a good place to start!"

He laughs a little. He _does_ have a perfect memory and he remembers that her breasts are sensitive -- more sensitive perhaps because the rest of her isn't. He focuses his attention on them, rotating between sucking and licking and flicking them rapidly with his tongue and his fingers. She squirms, panting and hissing and moaning in pleasure. The sound of her is a drug to him, sending shivers through his stone body and igniting a flame in his chest right where his heart should be. His erection throbs but he ignores it.

Laying an open palm on her belly, he drags it down to the sensitive spot on her hip, massaging it, then moves his hand inward to her mons. He wants her to _feel_ him, mouth at one breast, hand at the other and his free hand marking the constellation of her body's remaining sensitive spots below the line of injury. She's tensing and arching as best she can. She lacks the leverage to lift herself fully but she's creating pressure in her lower body and he can hear her heart pick up speed, her breath dragging in, holding, then releasing in a gust.

Pulling his mouth away, he keeps both hands busy and whispers against her skin. "I'm going to move my hand down and into you. Is that okay?" He doesn't want to break her concentration on her own pleasure, but he also doesn't want to just _do_ it without permission even if she can't feel it.

"It's okay," she gasps.

"What else do you need me to do?"

It takes her a moment and he knows verbalizing to him probably isn't easy. He doubts he could do it at all were the tables turned, having been born into a deeply reticent society. "What you're doing is good -- just take your time," she says now. "It'll take time."

"I know. Vampires don't get tired, remember?" He smiles against her skin and his words win a breathy laugh from her.

"Okay. Then, ah, direct stimulation as fast as you can manage. You might need my vibrator. It's in the top drawer of the night stand."

Just as her confession to having lube last night surprises him even when it shouldn't, her confession to owning a vibrator surprises him now -- even if it shouldn't. "Is it a regular vibrator?"

"No -- prescription. Regular vibrators just don't do it for me."

He nods, but more to himself. Dr. Masen knows the nerves don't work the same now; it requires something above and beyond. "I'm better than a vibrator," he says, smirking a little even while embarrassed. She giggles under him as he twists his wrist, leaving his thumb on the sensitive spot while his fingers slide into the soft-soft folds of her labia. She's all hot velvet but her lower body isn't wet yet. This is the disconnect caused by the spinal break; like a severed telephone cord, no messages reach her lower body from her brain, and no messages reach her brain from her lower body. But her lower body still answers to direct stimulation and in less than thirty seconds, he feels her clitoris firm up and his fingers grow slick and damp. The skin there is even hotter and he slides his hand down until his fore and middle finger find the hidden entrance, slipping inside her.

He almost comes right there, just from the feel of her muscles clenching around him, and he can't stop himself from thrusting hard against her hip. The scent of her arousal permeates the air and venom drips in his mouth.

He keeps his face away from her. He won't risk what happened last Sunday. It's enough to hear the throb of her heart and the blood rushing in her veins, to smell her and feel how easily his fingers slide along her folds and penetrate deep, his palm grinding against her clit. He grits his teeth to hold in the growl rising in his chest. Her hands in his hair try to tug him back down to her breast as she twists beneath him, tensing her stomach muscles, then releasing. Her eyes are shut and her mouth open. He bends to lick her lips, then tangle his tongue with hers but draw away before she can cut herself on his incisors or get too much venom. His fingers speed up going in and out of her and teasing her breast. "Oh," she sobs. "Oh. Yeeeaaah." It sounds almost like a cat mewling.

The scent of blood and lust curl around him like smoke, choking, and he doesn't dare lower his mouth again, even for a kiss, never mind to suck or lick her. She gives up trying to make him, her own fingers crawling to her breast instead, stroking and twisting the nipple. His eyes widen at this frank display and his cock grows even harder. He stops breathing to keep from growling and the venom is flooding his mouth now. His whole body shakes with need as he lets his hand mimic whatever hers does, learning by direct example how to please her.

He doesn't count minutes. Her eyes stay mostly shut as she focuses inward on the sensations and pants, her head thrashing on the pillow, her chin rising now and then and dropping back in time with her undulating torso. He speeds up his fingers and can't stop himself from grinding his stiff cock against her hip, but he's not terribly focused on his own need. He holds his breath and watches her reach, reach, reach, reach . . . swelling like an orchestra on the edge of fortissimo.

She plateaus, rises, plateaus, sinks, rises. She is a melody. Sweat on neck and brow and upper lip attest to her effort, and she's flushed from the roots of her hair to her toes. If he breathes in now, his throat will ignite and he's not sure he could restrain himself. Involuntarily his lips curl back from his teeth but she doesn't see and he stays in control. He makes a chant of it in his head like Jasper earlier. _Don't bite, don't bite._ His fingers move at superhuman speed but with great care. She suddenly _squeals_ and her back tries to arch. "Ah, ah, ah, allllmoooost!"

_Faster_, he tells himself. He has one goal right now, driving her forward and up until she crests and breaks like a wave, all pounding foam and swirling water. It doesn't happen instantly and he fears her heart might pound right out of her chest. Then he feels it; the autonomous muscles in her groin start contracting spontaneously and the walls of her vagina constrict around his fingers. A second later her eyelids pop open as her jaw drops. How she can feel this when otherwise she can't feel his hand at all he doesn't know, but the human nervous system and female sexual responses are still largely a mystery. She gasps, groans, then clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut again. Her orgasm is otherwise silent -- no lightning strike -- but he watches in slack-jawed awe all the same.

_He_ did that.

Abruptly it passes and she relaxes both above and below the waist. He relaxes too, still not breathing, and pushes his face against the side of hers, laughing without breath. His fingers have stilled on her and in her but they're soaking wet. She's panting. They stay that way for a full minute. Then he sits up and removes his hand, taking the lightest breath.

FIRE.

He erupts off the bed, croaking, "Air," and dashes for the sliding glass door, out onto the rear porch. The winter sun is shining and he's stark naked. He must look ridiculous, his vampire-white ass throwing rainbows and his cock still rigid and sparkling. At least he can breathe, and he drinks down the fresh air holding his wet hand away from him.

After a minute, he goes back inside to find her rolled onto her side facing the doors. She's wearing a huge grin. "Sparkle mooning," she tells him.

"What?"

"You. Naked in the sun. Sparkle mooning." Then she points at his still rigid member. "I think it wants attention."

He should be embarrassed but he's not. Not really. No, he's insanely happy because she's happy. He made her happy. He made her _come_. His chest swells a little and in that moment, he's seventeen and in love and on top of the world.

Going into the bathroom, he washes off his hand before joining her again, and not just because its sticky. The scent of her is strong and dangerous and he uses soap -- twice -- to cut it down. When he returns to her, she's on her back, waiting for him, and he slides in beside her. They return to kissing. Her hands stroke all over him but avoid direct contact with his groin. Sensual again, not sexual. He struggles not to hump her leg like a desperate dog, using his own hands to stroke her hips and thighs and buttocks. He loves the smooth feel of her skin. Yet he also feels some skin that's hotter than the rest and puzzled, glances beneath the covers.

She's got bruises. Big ones, all up and down her right thigh. Guilt slams into him and he freezes. "What?" she whispers.

"I hurt you."

"You did?" She looks down, then tosses the blanket aside to touch the bruises. His insides are curling in horror for what he's done. "It doesn't hurt, Edward. And you didn't break the skin."

"I still hurt you!"

"Well, yes, happens all the time if not necessarily from you. I get a lot of bruises."

"But I _hurt_ you!" Doesn't she understand . . . ?

"Edward, stop it." She reaches up to grip his chin. It's not especially gentle even if she couldn't hurt him if she tried. "I told you, this sort of thing happens constantly. You just haven't seen it before because you don't normally see me naked." She smirks at that. "But I bang myself on chair legs, table legs, door jambs -- all sorts of things. I'm still a klutz, you know." The grin deepens. "You didn't break the skin and the bruises don't look that bad. I'm not even sure one of those is from _you_. I think it's where I slammed into that shop door yesterday, remember? Now stop freaking out."

"But I _could_ hurt you, I could break your _bones_ and you wouldn't know! I could even -- "

"You could kill me accidentally, yes -- I'm aware of that. But you haven't. And you probably won't in the future. We've talked abut this before. Normal precautions, Edward. I think we've done pretty damn good so far, don't you? And even if you _weren't_ a vampire, you'd probably still bang me on the head or accidentally thwack me at some point. Stuff like that happens and there's a _huge_ difference between bruises like these" -- she touches the big triplet marks on her right hip -- "and the bruises given to some of my clients. It's called _INTENT_. You have a quick temper, yes, but you don't have anger management problems. Your control is superb, and these bruises didn't come from anger anyway."

No, they hadn't. But. "It was, ah . . . " He can't say it aloud, just points to his groin. In his case, "rock-hard cock" is literal. She gets what he can't say and has the gall to look _amused_, but he sits up and runs a hand into his hair. "This isn't going to work. It's too dangerous. I'll crush you or break you under me even if I don't bite you."

She ignores that, lifting up on an elbow to look behind her, then gesture. "Carry me -- and the blanket -- over to the couch there." She's indicating the love seat on the wall beside the sliding glass door; it offers her occasional relief from sitting in the chair but still supports her back (unlike the bed). "I have an idea," she adds.

Baffled, he does what she suggests, setting her down and covering her with the heated blanket. She pats the seat beside her. "Now you sit with your back to the couch rear" -- he does so -- "and lift me up so I can straddle you."

He gets it now, and is torn between resistance and embarrassment. "Bella -- "

"Edward, this'll work. I can brace my hands against the back and be on top so you can't crush me under you. You're making things too hard by thinking inside the box."

Still dubious, he nonetheless complies with her directions. He can always halt matters if he decides it's not safe. His body -- annoying thing that it is -- responds even to the idea that he'll get some. He's hard again, which seems to please her. She runs her hand lightly up and down him, winning his gasp at the tickly sharp sensations.

Otherwise, though, getting arranged is more like parallel parking the shelter van. Finally she's arranged with legs on either side of his, knees bent, body pressed to his chest and hands braced on either side of his shoulders. Their faces are at a level and she kisses him, lips moving over and molding to his. And dear, sweet Heavenly Lord, she's _wet_, soaking wet still from her own climax. It coats his erection where it presses into her nether folds and he closes his eyes because he can barely resist grabbing her hips and shoving himself deep inside her. "So good . . . " he mutters.

"For me too," she says.

"You can't feel -- "

"I like seeing your face, Edward. Seeing you turned on -- making you feel good -- is a huge turn-on for me. Making you happy makes _me_ happy." And he can't help but smile as she says aloud exactly what he was thinking earlier about _her_ orgasm. She places feather kisses along his jaw and cheekbone, her soft hair brushing his face. "Relax. This'll work."

"How do you _know_?" he whispers back, because he really, really, really wants to let go and trust her assessment, but he's afraid.

"The phone would be ringing if it wouldn't," she reminds him. "Alice."

She's right. He lets the argument go as his hands roam over her back and shoulders under the blanket, then up into her hair. She kisses his face and neck and shoulder and it keeps _his_ face (and teeth) away from her, but he gets to feel her warm skin covering him. He tucks the blanket in tighter and wraps one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders. She moves up to this ear, nipping the earlobe which practically sends him into the stratosphere as he bucks against her. But with no resistance at her back, her body just rises with his thrusts and he isn't hurting her.

He feels himself relax as the fear slips away. Arousal takes over and a growl slips out, embarrassing him. But she growls back, a little playful, a little serious -- which sends venom flooding his mouth. He keeps swallowing while she licks the muscle on the side of his neck and his Adam's apple. Except for the earlobe, she remembers her promise not to bite, but he's rapidly losing his ability to think. She rubs her hands up and down his arms, even sliding them between their bodies to scratch her short nails over his belly and his own nipples. He plays with her breasts, the soft weight of them filling his palms and exciting him. He's spiraling, the sensations in his lap getting stronger and stronger until he's throbbing and he just wants to be inside -- but doesn't know how to get there despite all the minds he's been in. Actually _doing_ it is different; things don't just slide into place. Her hot, slick skin coats his erection, making him slick too, but he can't tell where her entrance is exactly. If he tries to enter in the wrong spot, he'll damage her. Badly. But she can't raise herself . . .

"Are you ready?" she asks, cutting through his accelerating panic.

"Yes," he manages. "But I don't know -- "

"Shhhh," she whispers kissing his cheek right beside his ear. "It's not a test, Edward. We'll be fine. You'll be fine. Just lift me up a little."

He slides his hands under her buttocks and levers her an inch or two off his thighs as her hand moves down his front, tracing fire. Finding the base of his erection, she angles him up. He pants, trying desperately not to come just from that. Her other hand is spreading her lips as she pushes just the head of his cock inside.

Hot and tight and wet-wet-wet. He cries out. It takes more control for him not to slam her down on him than it takes not to bite her. "You can lower me now," she says, and he does -- probably faster than he should but he can't resist. He can't seem to feel anything but this, her velvet walls enveloping his aching cock. He's shaking and holds absolutely still for thirty seconds or he'll come. This is everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Her hands are back on the couch behind him and she rocks herself just a little. He gasps out. "You can push," she tells him softly.

"Won't last!" he cries.

"I know. It's okay. This is for you, sweetheart." One of her hands is in his hair, scraping gently along his scalp. "Move the way you need to, come when you're ready."

So he does, thrusting up and into her. It's absolutely overwhelming. He was right at the edge of the chasm when he entered her and a few strokes is all it takes. He's falling, crying out, his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he trembles. It erupts out of him in place of the seed he no longer has -- all his love and need and hopes and fears. He fills her up with everything he is and she holds on, letting him ride it. The tension inside him uncoils and spins out and he's almost sobbing in relief. This is better -- so much better -- than last night. He's _inside_. She's all around him, embracing him, containing him, and however broken and fragile she might be, in that moment, he feels weak while she's strong. "I love you," he gasps.

"I love you too," she whispers back. They don't need to say anything else, just hold onto each other.

* * *

**Special A/N:** _In the Blink of an Eye_ has been nominated for a Bellie Award! **"AU You Imagine as Canon"** WoOt! Thank you all so MUCH! Voting doesn't open until July 15th, though. [www(dot)thecatt(dot)net]

A public thanks to everybody for your reviews of part 47 as I wasn't able to answer them personally this time. Also, while I'm at it, a couple of readers have asked if I'm coming up with this story as I go or if I have a clear plot and specific end in mind. Yes, I have a specific plot and I know how it'll turn out, have from the beginning. (And while I'm at it, I need to give a shout-out to Minisinoo, who held my hand through the whole plotting process even when I was ready to throw in the towel.)


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes:** Edward and Bella in a jacuzzi, and a semi-serious conversation.

My apologies for how short this is, considering how long it took, but I dumped the original version and started over because I was spinning wheels. I promise the next part is longer, and picks up with a little more action!

* * *

Edward and Bella end up in the jacuzzi sometime after sunset. He feeds her bites of chilled winter fruit and soft white cheese. In the hot water, he feels warm to her, or at least, not cold. He made love to her again here too, apparently liking the freedom the water gives, softening any danger presented by his own vampire strength. She's gently amused at his stamina, and wonders if it comes from being seventeen in body, or just from being a vampire. Possibly both. At least he doesn't try to drive her to seconds herself. She explains that orgasm just isn't possible for her in normal coitus, and while she half expects paroxysms of emotional flailing over this, he accepts it quietly. She must remind herself that he isn't the same boy he was ten years ago any more than she's the same girl. Mostly she knows this, but sometimes she's guilty of forgetting, and if his brooding had appealed to her at seventeen, she likes this less Byronic Edward better. He's easier to live with at home.

Yet it's Edward, not Bella, who brings up the matter of where exactly 'home' will be now. She knows she's been avoiding again, content to live in the moment a little longer, but he's obviously been giving it some thought. Planning is one of Edward's many talents. "So," he says, and his voice has a shy tone that catches her attention. She turns her face to his. The steam from the water has condensed on his skin so that it looks like sweat. She finds this attractive and must resist _licking_ him, as his tone tells her he's about to get serious. "There are some, ah, logistics I suppose we need to take care of -- sooner rather than later. I've got to go in tomorrow and I don't want to waste the morning at banks or realtors. Then I'll be working nights through Thursday, but I'll be back on Friday and won't have to go in again until Saturday evening. I'm paying in advance for taking off Christmas Eve and Christmas."

Curious as to just where he's going, Bella nods for him to continue. He licks his lips. "You need to be put on my bank account. Well, the family bank account. Now, don't argue!" he warns. "You said you'd be my wife -- _are_ my wife. Most married couples do share a bank account -- "

Her fingers stop his lips. "It's okay, Edward." Then she moves her hand so she can kiss his mouth. "I'm not arguing with you." His expression is pure relief -- and pure delight. She'd been unable to accept his gifts before, believing she didn't deserve them. They'd embarrassed her by drawing attention and she'd been too self-conscious for that. She's not these days, and she understands better how little _things_ mean, or the money that buys them. "Rosalie all but gave me access to the family account months ago anyway," she reminds him, "for the shelter. I'm fine with having a joint account, or a family account, or however you'd like to do that, but it's probably a good idea if I keep a separate personal account too, for appearances."

He nods, looking cautious. "How _do_ you want to do this, Bella? You said we can't marry publicly . . ."

She only nods, glancing down at the steaming, bubbling water, not at him. She can see the fuzzy outlines of their limbs and torsos beneath. In the water, they don't look so different really. Her limbs are smooth and pink. His are pale as always, but not unnaturally so. Raising her eyes again, she studies his face, the lovely planes and sharp angles so dear to her, and can't resist stroking his cheeks. She loves this man. "Rose said it might not be a bad idea to make this legal, the marriage, just not to make it public."

"She is the family lawyer," Edward agrees, moving his head to kiss her palm. He tries not to look too eager but she can almost _feel_ the thrill running through him.

"Other than that, however . . . I don't know, Edward," she admits. "I wish I could tell everybody but I can't think how we'd explain your lack of aging. A few years we could fudge -- but ten?"

"I'm not arguing that," he says. "It's why we typically move in less than that."

"It's just . . . it's _frustrating,_" she admits, finally giving voice to something that's been building in her, and perhaps the real reason she's put off this discussion. "I don't know what to do." Her voice climbs a little. "I want you in my life. I can't imagine you _not_ here, and I'm not willing to 'settle,' but I don't know how to do this -- how to make it work."

Abruptly, she realizes she's trembling from the sheer emotion of her words and before she can blink, she feels arms around her. He just holds her until her heartbeat calms. How loud it must sound to him. They take strength in each other, then he leans away and kisses the end of her nose. "Let's take it one step at a time."

She nods. "Probably a good idea. It's . . . overwhelming when I try to think about the next fifty years."

"Then we won't. We'll think about the next two or three. I have a residency to finish, and you have a dissertation to complete. My second year will start next summer, and then I'll be specializing more -- less internal med and related fields. My hours will regularize a lot and we'll be able to spend more time together. How long do you think till you're done and ready to defend?"

"God, I need to get to writing, don't I?" She runs a hand over her face. "Life has just been so . . . crazy."

He grins at her. "You _do_ need to get to writing. I'd like us to be Dr. and Dr. Masen sooner rather than later. Or, um, well, you know -- Dr. and Dr. whatever . . ."

"I'll probably need to keep the last name Jackson," she warns him. "If I become 'Masen,' we'll have some explaining to do." Abruptly she grins. "As long as it's not _Swan_ anymore! That might not be very feminist of me, and I love Charlie -- but I couldn't _wait_ to take Mark's name! You have _no idea_ what it's like, being 'Beautiful Swan.' Mark never let me live that down."

She freezes. She hadn't meant to bring up Mark, here, now, but Edward doesn't seem fussed by it. He just laughs. "It is -- was -- sort of funny." He drops his eyes, then admits, "I wish you could be Masen."

Her smile is wistful. She knows what he means, and kisses his cheek, snuggling close -- and realizes that her anxiety of just a few minutes ago is gone. The fledgling relationship still seems very complicated, but she no longer feels as if she has to figure it all out by herself and present him with an annotated road map to their future. "All right," she says, drawing fingers down the smooth skin of his chest. "We'll work on the next few years, then take the rest as it comes. So what do we do first?"

"Friday I'll come and pick you up from the shelter around noon, then we'll go sign a bunch of papers, including an application for a marriage license. I can fake my own blood test, of course, but you probably want to get one. Then Rose can do her magic, and we'll be legal. There's a lot of paperwork, but aside from a trip to the bank to get your signature on the accounts, I think she can probably handle the rest for us. Then" -- he takes a deep breath -- "where do you want to live? If we're going to be here a couple of years, it might be worth letting Esme design a little house for us; she'd like that. Maybe we could buy property further south, closer to Atlanta, to split driving. After this year, I won't need that apartment in the city so much."

He has given some thought to this. The idea of buying land and constructing a house from scratch is a little daunting, but she knows the funds would be negligible for the Cullens. And he's right -- Esme would enjoy it, and so would Emmett. But. "Rose and Emmett put a lot of work into this house . . . "

"And it's not a bad idea to have another place you can stay besides our home. I expect . . . well, I'm pretty sure Rose and Emmett's place will wind up becoming the new family gathering place. It's a larger than Esme and Carlisle's cabin, never mind Alice and Jasper's shop flat. And I don't supposed you want a big house?" She shakes her head. "Well, unless -- " He stops. His mouth closes and his lips form a thin, hard line.

"Unless?" she prompts, confused as to what's sealed his lips.

Silence stretches for almost a full minute, then he blurts. "You know I can't give you children. But if you want to adopt -- or even if you want artificial insemination -- I certainly wouldn't object -- "

"No." She bites her lips to keep from laughing at his nervous rambling and lays her palm on his chest over his non-beating heart, hoping to still his anxiety with the gesture. "I don't want kids, not really. Or maybe I should say I don't feel a great need to bear them. I thought you knew that?" He just shakes his head, his eyes wide. "I did read that exchange you had with Mark."

"Oh. Well, yes, but that was a few years back."

"I haven't changed my mind." She frowns down at the slick, white skin of his shoulder and the rounded hills of his biceps. "I suppose I always assumed I'd have kids with Mark eventually. He wanted them. I wasn't in any hurry. I don't _dislike_ children, and I enjoy spoiling Mark's nieces and nephews, and Jake and Irene's kids -- but I raised my mother when she was supposed to be raising me. Then I took care of my father. Maybe it's selfish, but that's enough caretaking. I know both of them would like grandkids, but right now, having kids not only isn't high on my agenda, it's not on the agenda at all. So yeah, I'm okay not having kids, Edward."

He's listened to this with a sort of wide-eyed relief. "If you change your mind -- "

"I'll be sure to let you know. But I don't think I will. I can satisfy any residual maternal urges by borrowing other people's children. The nice thing about borrowing kids is that I get to send them home again after I've spoiled them rotten for a while."

Finally, he smiles. But he looks a bit sad, as well and suddenly, it strikes her that maybe _he_ wanted children. "What about you? Would you want me to have kids for us?"

He looks surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to read him so clearly, then he appears almost . . . sly. Or perhaps reticent is better. "I gave up any thought of children a hundred years ago when I woke like this."

She could push it, but decides to let it drop. They can revisit the idea if they need to. She really isn't in a hurry but if he wants them . . . well, she'd married Mark knowing that he did. She knows instinctively that Edward wouldn't care so much if they were his as long as they were hers. They have time to think about that later. As they both agreed -- they'll focus on the next two or three years, then see where it takes them.

"So, you don't think Rose and Emmett would be upset if I moved out after everything they did to make their house disabled-friendly?"

"If the other option is me living here . . . no," Edward tells her with a grin. "And like I said, I expect Rose and Emmett's place will wind up where we spend time for family holidays, so it needs to be better equipped than the stop-gap job we did on the cabin." He watches her face, and he doesn't need to read her mind to see she's still feeling guilty. "Bella, really. Rose and Em won't be upset. Remember -- we get _bored_. So very bored. Sometimes it's a struggle to find something constructive to do. Rose has a job here, but not Emmett. Of course, he doesn't need one for income, but there's little more annoying than a bored Emmett. I'm sure Rose _thanks_ you for having given him something to do last spring. And Emmett loves solving puzzles. He'd rather fix a house than design it, or build it." He pauses, then adds, "If you don't believe me -- ask him."

Abruptly, Bella grins. "Maybe he should start a handyman business for widows and divorcees."

"Maybe he should." When Edward says it, it sounds less whimsical. "He could afford to do it for very reasonable fees. Some of those businesses are outrageous in what they charge because they know they have people in need over a barrel. Emmett doesn't need the money; he just needs something to keep him occupied."

They continue to chat for a while, enjoying the warm water, and if some of what they say does concern the logistics of their future, the critical points have been covered. Bella knows she should talk to him about "accidents," too, and whether or not she could or should become a vampire -- the questions Rose keeps pushing. But she doesn't. She doesn't want to mar the magic of this night for them. Harder questions can wait for a few days. It's not as if they're going away any time soon.

* * *

**Special Note:** As I mentioned last time, "In the Blink of an Eye" has been nominated for this summer's Bellie Awards [thecatt(dot)net] in the category of "AU You Imagine As Canon." That just BOWLS me over. I'm terribly flattered that readers consider this story as canon-worthy! I would _love_ it if you vote for "In the Blink," but as there are several other really good and much more popular stories in the same category, including three I'm a fan of myself ("Creature of Habit," "Abbraciare il Cantante," and "Innocent, Vigilant, Ordinary"), I have to say it's really great just to be nominated in such company! Voting opens on the evening of the 15th (that's next Wednesday).

Also, and although my story isn't there, don't forget to vote in the Indie Twific Awards [theindietwificawards(dot)com], too. Preliminary voting runs through Sunday (tomorrow). There are some REALLY fantastic but less well-known stories nominated there. Go and give them your love!


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes:** Alice and Jasper are headed to Biloxi for a few days. Emmett minds the store while Esme and Hannah plan maternity clothes shopping. Nothing turns out like they expect.

* * *

"Alice, you and Jasper have a wonderful time and don't worry about a thing. Maddie isn't leaving for home till the 23rd" -- so their rotations at the shelter won't begin until that day -- "and I don't mind keeping the store." Esme hugs her and kisses her cheek.

"You've got the lists -- "

"I've got the lists!" Esme says, laughing and pushing Alice towards Jasper, who appears amused. Esme doesn't need physical lists, but it eases Alice's mind to make them. "Everything will be ready when you get back, and we'll still have a whole week before the wedding."

"Okay, okay . . . " A frown cuts Alice's forehead as she watches cars and vans come and go in the Departures drop-off at the airport. "But maybe I should have postponed this trip until January."

"You planned it before Edward dropped his bombshell," Jasper reminds her.

"He proposed before he was supposed to," Alice says; the frown hasn't gone away. "But I'm glad he did." She smiles abruptly. "It's fine. It doesn't have to be a big wedding."

Esme nods. "That's right. Edward wants something private, and you know Bella doesn't like grand-standing. Now go and meet your grand-niece and her kids, and have a wonderful time."

"I will." Alice hugs Esme again, followed by Jasper before they collect their luggage and head into the terminal. Just before they enter the sliding doors, Alice turns abruptly. The frown is back on her face. "Esme, don't forget what I saw."

Abruptly Esme feels a chill that has nothing to do with the weather she no longer notices anyway. Despite the car running and the trunk yawning open, she hurries to Alice. "Did you see -- ?"

"No," Alice shakes her head. "Nothing new. I just . . . I feel like it's _coming_ but I can't see when." She meets Esme's eyes. "Edward still doesn't know and I'm afraid to say anything to him until I can give him something concrete. He overreacts."

"I won't be telling him. You'll call if you see anything else?"

"Yes, of course." Alice nods. "Keep an eye on Bella." Then she turns and hurries into the airport, followed by a troubled-looking Jasper.

Esme is no less disquieted as she returns to her waiting car and heads home. She's not really sure it makes a great deal of difference whether Alice is in Helen or Biloxi as long as she has her cell phone. She'll see something as soon as a final decision has been made. That's her theory at the moment, in fact -- only half the decision has been made, so she can see only that there's a threat, not exactly what form it'll take.

Esme is glad that Edward's been so preoccupied with Bella. It's made things easier keeping Alice's vision from him over the past several days, and now, he's in Atlanta until Friday. But Esme doesn't like Alice's sense of impending doom, even if she wasn't about to ask Alice to stay. It took Alice a long time to summon the nerve to contact her surviving family. She and Emmett are the only ones who've kept an eye on their descendants -- Emmett because he remembers his, and Alice because she's recently found them. She's been pretending to be a distant cousin doing family-tree research, and asked if she could come to Biloxi to share what she's found and hear any stories they might have. She honestly does have a chart and information to offer, but her real reason for going is in the hope the family there might have stories or even old photographs. It's far enough in the past, and the world is sufficiently different, that perhaps any shame associated with an ancestor "in the mad house" will have faded. Of course, the family thinks Mary Alice _died_, not that she was committed, but even so, there might be something. If all she gets out of this are scans of a few grainy old family pictures, Esme thinks it will be worth it for her.

Esme pulls Emmett's big jeep out into interstate traffic. She feels a bit ridiculous, driving this jacked-up off-road vehicle with its fog lights, monster wheels, and gun rack. The boys take it hunting, but with three people plus luggage, it was easier to drive the jeep than her truck, and Carlisle is headed to a local medical licensing service today to apply for a Georgia license, so he'd needed Alice's car. "I don't think showing up in a tricked-out jeep would be a good idea," he'd said with amusement.

Driving this is fun though, Esme must admit. She's raised above most other vehicles and the rumble of the big engine imbues a feeling of _power_. No wonder Emmett likes this car.

Back in Helen, she drops by the shelter on the way to Alice's. Hannah wanted to shop for maternity clothes while the volunteer who watches the shelter kids is there, and Esme offered her a ride. Now, she calls ahead and Hannah is waiting for her on the porch. As she approaches, Esme notes that she's starting to show, demonstrating that loose-hipped walk of pregnancy before the waddle takes over. "What the hell?" she asks as she opens the door and climbs into the cab with Esme. "Who's is this?"

"Emmett's -- Rose's husband. You've met him."

"Oh, yeah -- the big dude. He's nice."

"He is."

"Where's your truck?"

"At Alice's shop. It wouldn't fit all three of us plus the luggage, so Emmett and I traded for the morning. He's watching the store."

She laughs. "The idea of that guy in a shop for women's accessories is pretty funny." Then she opens her purse to pull out her cigarettes.

"Ah, ah!" Esme says.

Hannah huffs and rolls her eyes . . . but puts the pack away. "God. You're as bad as your brother."

"He's right, you know. Your baby doesn't need tar and nicotine."

Esme puts the jeep in reverse, but Bella rolls out onto the porch and waves. "Hey!" she calls.

Esme rolls down her window. "Yes?"

"Can I hitch a ride? Rose was supposed to drop off the shelter books from Alice's, but she got a call from the courthouse and has to go straight down there. Emmett can bring me back later."

Esme almost suggests that she'll have Emmett deliver the books instead but knows Bella prefers doing things herself, not having them done for her because it's more convenient. Nonetheless, "Emmett probably won't be coming right back. We plan to shop and he has to mind the store."

"That's okay." Bella waves a folder full of papers. "I can work on balancing them there, and I need the mid-month figures before I send Maddie grocery shopping. She gets out of class at 2:50 so I'm pressed for time."

Esme stops the jeep and helps Bella into the backseat, then stores the chair while Hannah updates Bella on her last visit to the obstetrician. The drive to the shop doesn't take long, and Esme parks in the rear lot beside her own truck. She and Hannah help Bella out, but with Bella in the chair, they have to go all the way around to the front, as the rear entry has stairs. They may be just a few steps, but stairs are stairs. "Hey ladies!" Emmett calls, then asks his customer, "If you'll excuse me a moment?" She just nods, seemingly amused to be waited on by somebody who looks more suited to Sport's Authority than Wool & Rhinestones.

Weaving through the tables Emmett joins Esme, Hannah and Bella. "Glad you're here. Alice didn't tell me the Christmas season would be this busy." He looks slightly terrified, and Esme suppresses a grin. She can't resist having some fun with this.

"Actually, Em, I was going to take Hannah shopping for clothes so it'll be another hour or two before we're back." His eyes get wider. "Or _you_ could go with Hannah for maternity clothes and I'll mind the store."

"Ah, um, well . . ." -- he glances at Hannah, then Bella, who Esme notes is struggling not to crack up -- "I think you'd be, um, better at that. I mean you were pregnant too and all. I've never been pregnant."

"If you were pregnant, Rose might be a tad surprised," Esme tells him, then dissolves in giggles.

"I'll be here, too, Em," Bella tells him, biting her lips. "I'll save you from the evil handmade jewelry and big bad balls of yarn."

"It's not the yarn that worries me," Emmett mutters looking annoyed, although given how often he teases everybody else, he can't complain too much about being teased in turn. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, Esme thinks. "Rose couldn't get by with the books," Bella is explaining, "so I came downtown to get them. When Hanna and Esme are finished, you can drop Hannah and I back at the shelter."

"All right," he grumbles. "Just let me go down to Jasper's dungeon and get a book or something. I didn't think to before they left this morning."

"Certainly," Esme says. "In the meantime, I'll go and wait on the lady."

He disappears into the back and she can hear his heavy tread on the stairs as she crosses the little shop to talk to the well-dressed retiree. Hannah seats herself on a stool behind the counter, content to wait. She plays with the little 8-Ball that Alice keeps there. It was a gag gift from Edward years ago. Bella has rolled into Alice's office behind the counter, digging through piles of paper, looking for the shelter books.

Esme hears the buzz of her phone alerting her to a text message, but it's in her purse at the back and a human shouldn't be able to hear it where she stands near the store front. She hopes it's nothing urgent. She continues talking to the customer until Hannah says, "Esme! Your purse keeps humming!"

"Oh! That's my phone." Esme pretends surprise. If you'll excuse me," and she hurries to where she left it behind the counter a moment ago. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see three men crossing the street, headed for the shop door, or maybe just for the sidewalk. Dressed in ball caps and heavy winter flannel, they don't look the sort to patronize Alice's place, but perhaps they're after presents for wives or girlfriends. Fishing her phone from her purse, she glances down at it. Alice. Esme's breath stops.

The message is terse. It has to be because Alice is on a _plane_ headed for Mississippi. She must not have wanted to risk a phone call in case a flight attendant caught her.

_Run. Gun in jeep._

That's all. Alice is relying on Esme to recall the details of Alice's vision: Esme with a shotgun, frightened but determined.

She's out the back door even as she hears the tinkle of bells as the front opens. She doesn't have time to worry that Hannah or the customer might have seen her essentially disappear.

In seconds, she's at the jeep and has the door wrenched open, not even bothering to unlock it. Emmett's shotgun is in her hand a second later, and the box filled with shot and gunpowder.

Esme grew up a country girl. Even as a human, she could load, aim and shoot in under a minute. She'd brought down more than a few geese for the stewpot, and her father had teasingly called her his little Annie Oakley. It takes her three seconds as a vampire to load the gun. Shot and powder in one hand, barrel in the other, she's back inside in time to hear the screaming start, and the shouting.

"Get down and shut up, you ugly old biddy!" And there's a wet smack like a fist hitting flesh.

Another voice says, "Get your fat ass out here! How dare you try to hide my baby from me!"

"Put down the gun, please. Put down the gun." Bella's voice. Calm but shaking. "Nobody here is fighting you. Nobody needs to get hurt."

Esme bursts through the back door, shotgun leveled already, taking aim from just the sound of the male voices. She can hear Emmett thundering up the steps behind her.

"DROP IT!" she says.

Instead, the man in the middle, the one waiving a pistol, laughs. "Look at that! Feisty MILF with a boot-blaster. Watch how you hold that thing, darlin', or the kick might knock you on your pretty little ass."

"First, this is a single-barrel 12-gauge New England Pardner, you idiot, not a boot-blaster. Second, I can drop a buck at 120 feet with one shot to the heart. Now, do you want to see what I could do to you at twelve?"

The expressions on the men's faces change profoundly. The skinny one holding a white-faced Hannah looks more nervous than cocky, and the other raises both hands. "Hows about we just, uh, walk back out the door we came in by? Come on Brady. This isn't what I signed on for."

"Shut up, you pansy-ass." Brady -- the one with the pistol -- is red-faced at being stood up to, both by Esme and then his friends. Esme doesn't think he's drunk, although she suspects he's been drinking even though it's only noon.

She's conscious of Emmett at her back -- solid and bigger than any of the three men, growling almost too low to be heard. The terrified customer is lying on her face by the door, hands over her head and whimpering. Bella remains quiet and still behind Esme, but Hannah is starting to twist in the skinny man's grip. "You're not allowed near me, you piss-ass bastard!" she says to Brady. "I have a restraining order out on you!"

The fight in her sets off Brady. "What do I care about a piece of fucking paper?"

"The cops'll make you care!" Hannah shrieks.

"Hannah -- " Bella says, trying to sooth her.

Hannah's not listening; neither is Brady. "You're pregnant and you didn't even fucking tell me!' he yells. "You got no right hiding that baby! It's my baby!"

"How do _you_ know it's yours?" she spits back.

"You manipulaitve _whore_!" Face red, he swings the pistol from Esme to her. "I am _so_ fucking tired of you and your shit!" With vampire sight, Esme can see the infinitesimal twitch of his forefinger on the trigger. Fortunately he opted for a big gun -- the classic Colt 45 -- that takes effort to pull. (Big gun, small penis, she thinks.) And in that moment, he becomes Charles. He becomes Royce. He becomes every man who's ever raised his hand in anger and violence against somebody smaller than him. But this time, she's armed. This time, she's powerful. This time she's got the gun, and it's more solid than her fears, or her past.

She pulls the trigger.

The double report of two guns going off is deafening in the little shop. Then comes the screech of agony from the man suddenly writhing on the floor, hand pressed to the mess of bone, cartilage, muscle and blood that used to be his right shoulder.

Lots and lots of blood. "Stop breathing!" Bella hisses to Esme as Brady's helpers panic and bolt. The customer is screaming again. Emmett has thrown himself at Hanna, knocking her out of the way of Brady's bullet, so she's unharmed.

"Go!" Bella says, "Wait out back!" Esme hurries to obey, Emmett following. In truth, he's a bit better than her at resisting blood, but _that_ much blood would be overwhelming to anybody but Carlisle, Rosalie and Edward.

In the back parking lot, Esme can breathe again. Emmett is right behind her, holding Hannah in his arms. Hannah appears shell-shocked and seems content to be held, not registering how easily he's doing it despite her pregnant weight. Esme's shaking, and still holding the shot gun. Part of her feels powerful at having successfully protected somebody else. Part of her just feels terrified and a little sick at what she's done.

"How in hell did they find her?" Emmett snarls.

"I don't know," Esme replies. "But the shop is the public face of the shelter. It's location isn't a secret."

"How could they have known she'd be at the shop _today_, though? And why the hell didn't Alice see this?"

"I don't know," Esme says again, giving him a warning glance for the slip about Alice. Fortunately, Hannah is too far in shock to make note of it -- or care.

As for the 'how,' Esme resists the obvious answer -- that somebody at the shelter let something slip. After all, they screen staff and volunteers carefully, requiring them to undergo training, sign confidentiality agreements, and never, ever share shelter resident names or their comings and goings outside the shelter, lest it fall on the wrong ears. Did something fall on the wrong ears today? Or was this pure chance?

They stay outside for three minutes before they can hear the blare of sirens -- police and ambulance both. Emmett tries to set Hannah on her feet, but she just clings to him. He finally settles for sitting sideways in the open jeep door. He must at least give the appearance of human weaknesses such as fatigue. "Sorry about the door," Esme tells him.

"Rose can fix it," he replies.

They don't talk about what just happened -- what it might mean to their future here in Helen.

Vampires aren't supposed to draw undue attention to themselves and Esme isn't sure what the Volturi would have to say if they hear about this, especially if it lands on a newsfeed besides the local. In this day of the internet, oddball local stories can get picked up and blown into national proportion when all-day news shows like CNN are looking for padding on a slow-news day. That's the last thing they need. They're getting away with running the shelter in the first place because it flies under the radar enough that nobody is paying them any attention. The whole idea walks at very edge of what the Volturi consider allowable -- but Esme doesn't regret having opened it, even now with a man she wounded thrashing on the floor of a Alice's shop.

At least she'd wounded him with a perfectly human weapon. It's even registered. She's never been so glad they all play by the rules as much as they can, most of the time.

Bella appears in the back door. "The cops are here," she calls, then adds in a whisper she knows only Emmett and Esme can hear, "I told them that Hannah was in no condition to come back inside and that Esme is very sensitive to the smell of blood -- so they're coming out here to interview you."

Esme nods her thanks and Bella disappears back in as two uniformed police officers exit past her to take their statements. Three minutes later, Carlisle arrives. He appears terrified and hugs Esme tightly. She doesn't think it's entirely an act for the sake of the police. "Are you all right?" he whispers in her ear.

She knows he means psychologically, not physically, and nods, clinging to him. He's her rock and she lets herself release the fear she's been holding in. "I'm sorry," she whispers back. "I think I blew it."

"It'll be all right," he replies. "We'll get through this. And the boy's not dead."

"Of course he's not dead. I hit what I was aiming at," Esme says, piqued despite her fear.

Carlisle chuckles.

The police ask them to come down to the station. The ambulance has already left for the hospital with the wounded Brady. Esme isn't under arrest, the police assure them after Emmett has produced his papers for the gun, which he keeps in his glove compartment. He looks every inch the classic hunter and his paperwork is all in order, so the police aren't suspicious. Carlisle doesn't let go of Esme the whole time. Thank god this day has been typically December overcast.

Back at the station, Rose meets them and sits in on their questioning. Esme wishes for Edward, Alice, or Jasper -- any of their gifted family members -- but they'll have to do this without aid beyond normal vampire senses. Esme pays close attention to the heartbeat rates of the police. They don't seem elevated at all while they question her, Emmett and Bella, nor do they smell anxious. In fact, the questions are fairly perfunctory. Brady's been arrested before, has a restraining order on him and is known to be impulsive, whereas Esme's record is spotless, as is Emmett's. Brady's accomplices were picked up earlier; in fact, one of them turned himself in, figuring he'd get a lighter sentence by cooperating. He hadn't anticipated Brady had a gun. In fact, the entire thing seems to have been spur of the moment. They learn these things because their hearing allows them to listen in on hallway conversations.

According to the cooperative accomplice, Brady had taken to drinking more with the holidays coming and his wife and kids gone, so two of his childhood friends had staged an intervention -- only for Brady to spot Hannah on the street as they were leaving the diner and flip out. He hadn't known she was pregnant. According to the friend, they'd followed, intended to keep him calm. Things had escalated when he'd pulled a pistol. It's clear the police are dubious about that "keep him calm" claim, but the rest seems straightforward enough. The testimony of the customer also makes it clear that the three men had entered the store spouting threatening abuse, and the pistol was pulled almost immediately so Esme had reacted in self-defense.

Edward arrives shortly after sunset. Given the situation -- that his "sister" had just shot a man -- the hospital had been willing to let him halve his Tuesday shift. Hannah is allowed to go back to the shelter to be with her children, driven there by a police woman after Carlisle performs a quick exam to be certain her unborn child is all right. But the rest of them are still needed to sign statements. Edward hugs Esme first, then Bella, then even Emmett. "You're okay?" he asks Esme aloud as he grips her hands. He can read her mind of course, but it's important to keep up appearances for the watching cops.

She nods and says, "Yes." At the moment, they're occupying hard chairs in a room used for questioning, but the door is open and they've been supplied with coffee (only Bella is drinking). It's clear they're not being held for anything, a fact Edward confirms shortly in a low, fast voice.

"They're just finishing paperwork for you to sign, then they'll release you. They don't see any more in this than exactly what it appears to be -- crazy, jealous, intoxicated husband assaults estranged, pregnant wife despite a restraining order, and gets shot for his trouble. He's going to jail, you're going free."

Esme nods and actually feels her knees buckle in relief as Carlisle catches her. She's never been in trouble with the law, and justified or not, hasn't been handling this well. "The Volturi . . . ?" she asks.

"I don't know," Edward replies. "I did speak to Alice, but she doesn't see anything especially negative happening to the family after this. What I want to know, though, why she didn't see it all to begin with?"

"Split second decision on the part of Brady, it sounds like," Carlisle offers, but something alerts Edward, and Esme watches his face _harden_ as he lifts something out of someone's mind.

"She did see it," he hisses. "She saw it and she didn't _tell_ me? You didn't tell me!" He stares, wide-eyed, at Esme. "Why didn't you tell me!"

"Shhhh," Carlisle warns him. Emmett and Rose look alarmed, and even Bella appears suddenly worried. She might not be able to hear clearly what he's saying, but she can read his face and body language.

She rolls closer. "Edward?"

He ignores her and Esme can almost _feel_ him forcefully ransack her mind for the conversation with Alice last Thursday in the woods. "How dare you not tell me."

"Tell you what?" Bella asks.

Edward is too angry to reply. He's fisting and un-fisting his hands. "It's over," Esme tells him, trying to calm him down. "It's over, and nothing happened. Bella's fine. She was never in any danger, in fact."

"In danger?" Bella just appears confused.

"I need air," Edward says, turning on his heel and storming out, leaving all of them staring after him.

"What just happened?" Bella asked, voice suspicious.

Esme sighs. "I'll explain in the car," she says, the feeling of impending doom back. But it won't be the police -- or Brady -- she has to worry about, it seems.

* * *

**A/N:** The next part will be up later this week. I wouldn't leave you hanging! (Well, not much ... ha.)

**Special Note:** Tonight, voting begins for this summer's Bellie Awards [thecatt(dot)net], and "In the Blink" is up in the category of "AU You Imagine As Canon." I would _love_ it if you vote for "In the Blink," but there are several other really good stories in the same category, including some I'm a fan of myself!


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes:** Bella learns the full truth.

* * *

Esme and Rose take turns explaining Alice's vision to Bella on the ride back to Rose's house. Emmett and Carlisle are in the car Carlisle borrowed from Alice. A phone call interrupts near the beginning of the explanation, and Esme -- who isn't driving -- reads the text without comment, then closes the phone. She doesn't say who it is, or what the message had been. It's probably Alice, and Bella wants to ask, but doesn't. There are bigger fish to fry.

Bella feels betrayed, although her objective side recognizes why they hadn't told Edward. Apparently Alice had seen that he would 'hover' and drive Bella to distraction. But -- "I'm not inclined to knee-jerk responses, you know. And I do understand how Alice's visions work -- that there can be lots of possible outcomes. You could have told me."

"Alice didn't think it was worth saying anything to worry you until something got clearer," Rose explains -- again.

"And it was just at the airport this morning that she told me she had a feeling something would happen soon," Esme adds. "I didn't have time -- alone -- with you until it actually _did_ happen."

Despite a certain numbness, Bella feels argumentative. "But would you have told me even if we'd had time?" Esme doesn't answer immediately and Bella says, "I thought not." Esme doesn't dispute that, just looks mollified. Rose says nothing, keeping her eyes on the road, her posture stiff and angry, but Bella understands it for guilt. Rose realizes she should have told Bella. "I know now why you were asking me what I'd want to do in case Edward bit me," Bella tells Rose. "It wasn't Edward's bite you were worried about, was it? It was this."

"Yes," Rose admits, voice terse.

"You do realize that if you'd given me the actual scenario, my answer might have been different."

"It would? What would you have answered, knowing it all now?"

"I'd have said 'yes.'" Bella is surprised by her own certainty, but it doesn't lessen that certainty any. "I'd want to change. I'm not ready to lose Edward."

Rose neither answers immediately nor looks at Bella, just gives a sharp nod of the head. Finally, she says, "Moot point."

"Apparently," Bella agrees.

None of them speak again; it's not a comfortable silence but fortunately, they're only a few blocks from Rose's house.

Edward is there in the driveway, leaning up against the side of his Audi, arms and ankles crossed. He still looks furious. Bella now understand why, and he's at her door almost before Rose can stop the car. "Come on," he says as he opens it, reaching in to scoop up Bella. "We're leaving."

Esme appears shocked. Rose just looks furious and gets out herself, slamming the door. She storms around the car to confront Edward with Bella in his arms. "Look here, you ASS. You don't have the right to just swoop in and carry her off! You don't OWN her!"

"I never said I did!" Edward bellows back, almost deafening Bella, who winces. "But at least I'd TRUST her enough to tell her about a vision that might mean life or death for her!"

"Oh, YES, you self-righteous prick!" Rose punches his shoulder with one manicured red nail. "Tell me ALL about it! You LEFT her ten years ago because you -- in all your godlike wisdom -- thought it BEST for her! How does it feel with the shoe on the other foot, Edward? You don't have room to talk!"

"I've learned better since!" he shouts back.

"TIME OUT!" Bella howls . . . stopping them both cold. "Edward, please put me down -- in my chair." Face meek and humiliated, Esme already has it out and opened for her. "I'm not a doll."

"I didn't think you were," he mutters, but complies immediately with her request.

Settled, Bella spins the chair, glaring at her new husband and the woman who has, to her great surprise, become her best friend. "Look, I love you both, and I believe -- with all my heart -- that you _both_ absolutely want what's best for me because you have good souls and you're the fiercest protectors I know." That makes them both blink in surprise, but it's true. Edward and Rose are two sides of one coin and she suddenly understands _why_ she's come to love Rose so well. She's just like Edward in all the ways that really matter.

"I'm angry, Rose," she says. She's aware of a second car pulling in behind Rose's Tesla. Emmett and Carlisle. They get out and approach cautiously, aware a stand off is in process. Carlisle goes to Esme, but Emmett is wise enough to keep his distance from Rosalie, instead standing behind Bella, who's facing the two of them. "You hurt me," Bella goes on, and her voice cracks. It's more effective than anger as Rose's whole face crumples. She starts to move towards Bella, but Bella holds up a hand and she stops. "I trusted you. You let me down -- you and Alice both, and Esme." She glances back. "And Emmett?" He just drops his eyes. "All of you knew."

"Carlisle didn't," Esme says quietly. "Don't blame him."

"Edward," Rose says now with a pointed look in his direction, "would have freaked out if we'd told him. Alice saw that he'd get overprotective and make you so angry, you'd have had a serious fight."

"I would not -- !"

"You would so!" Rose cuts him off. "Don't tell us you wouldn't! Alice saw it! And we ALL know what you're like!"

"And that gives you the right not to tell Bella?"

"STOP!" Bella yells. She feels _right on the edge_. Before she can continue, a phone rings. She's not sure whose until Edward fishes out his cell and glances at it. His lips thin.

"_Alice,_" he says into the receiver as he flips it open. "You -- " He cuts off, listening for a moment, then breaths out heavily and hands it to Bella.

Surprised, she raises it to her ear. The first words she hears are, "I'm so sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Despite the fact she knows Alice can see just how to approach this to defuse her anger, it works. A straight-out apology -- without excuses -- is exactly what Bella needs to hear, and it's exactly what Alice is giving her. "I love you," she continues, and Bella can hear in her voice the tears that can't be shed. "And I trust you -- I really do. I'm so sorry, I just . . . I didn't want to scare you until I knew more. I was waiting for a clearer vision. I should have known better."

She doesn't ask for forgiveness. So of course Bella gives is. "I know," she says. It's grudging. "I know you didn't mean me ill."

"Absolutely not!" Bella hears someone speak behind Alice and Alice responds quickly, then says into the phone mic, "Jasper's telling me, 'I told you so.'"

Against her will, Bella smiles. She can see that all the Cullens can hear this conversation, so she asks. "What do you see now, Alice? The truth."

"Nothing," Alice tells her. "Nothing more. I saw it all happen as it played out, of course -- well, just before it played out. I was on the plane. I couldn't call. I got out my phone anyway and sent Esme a text. The flight attendant didn't catch me."

Bella glances at Esme, who just nods. Esme had mentioned that earlier.

"And that's all? You've seen nothing else since?"

"Nothing else -- I swear on a stack of Bibles. Assuming that counts for vampires."

Behind her, Emmett snorts, but neither Rose nor Edward -- nor Carlisle and Esme -- look amused. "Anyway," Alice is saying, "don't blame them. I told them not to tell you."

"Thank you, Alice," Bella says, "but Rose, Esme and Emmett are still adults and they have to answer for their own choices. Just -- never again hide a vision from me. Even a scary one. I can forgive you once. I can't forgive you twice."

"I know," she says. "I won't."

Bella closes Edward's phone and hands it back to him. He doesn't look satisfied, but he's less visibly angry. Alice, Bella thinks, knows how to manage her brother. Yet as a communication specialist, Bella can see exactly _how_ she's managing her brother (and the rest of them), so it loses some of its impact. Alice may mean well, but Bella thinks she still has a ways to go before she fully grasps the scope of the deception she played here.

Edward is watching Bella. "What do you want to do?" he asks quietly. "Do you want to stay here tonight?" -- and that simple question means the world to her. Of them all, he -- who once tried to run her life the most -- is the one asking her what she wants to do now. If she hadn't loved him before, this would seal it. Till death parts them, her heart will belong to him and she's never wished more that he could hear the clamor in her brain telling him so. She meets his eyes instead, hoping he can see it there -- her gratitude, her affection, her trust. She _knows_ he'd have told her. Yes, Alice is probably right -- he'd have hovered. He'd have driven her crazy. But he'd have told her. And in the end, that's the greater trust. Protection is normal. All people want to protect those they love. But trusting someone with the truth -- that's dearer, and Edward would have trusted her. The rest of them meant well -- honestly they did -- but even Rose didn't trust her like Edward would. Or Rose hadn't. Bella thinks they might all have learned something here tonight, and in the end, perhaps the future matters more than the past.

"I'll be okay here," she tells Edward, then breaks the stare to glance around at the rest of them. "Don't ever lie to me -- us -- again. The same thing I told Alice applies to all of you. Yes, I'm human. I'm disabled. I'm breakable compared to you. But if there's a threat to me, I want to know about it. Even if all Alice's visions say I'm dying -- I want to know. I deserve to know. If you don't tell me, you're stealing my choices. That's not a kindness."

It's Carlisle who backs up her words. "She's right," he says softly. "As a doctor, I sometimes have to deliver bad news to a patient but -- a few rare situations aside -- it's always better if the patient knows the full scope. It's not a kindness to spare them. Bella didn't die today -- God be thanked -- but if events had gone differently, we wouldn't have known what she wanted."

"She says she would have wanted to be changed," Rose blurts.

That catches everybody's attention, especially Edward's. He glares at Rose. "That's not an op- "

"That's what she said she _wanted_, Edward!"

"Rose is right," Bella says before Edward can reply. He turns to look at her and she holds his eyes. It's hard. He's clearly upset and his face is pleading with her. But she holds his eyes. "I'm not ready to lose you yet. If I'm eighty, that's different -- or seventy, or even sixty -- I'd be ready to go. But tomorrow? I'm not ready."

His gold eyes are dark and hard as he glares at her in the night of Rosalie's driveway. Security lights from the garage cut sharp shadows in his face.

"I know what the decision would mean," she tells him, not backing down. "I'm not seventeen any more. I understand completely what I'm choosing."

And he bows his head. It's acquiescence. "I know you do. And I'd respect your decision."

The gathering in Rose's driveway breaks up after that. Esme and Carlisle go home, and Rose and Emmett go with them -- perhaps because the tension is still thick between Rose and Edward, or perhaps just to give Edward and Bella time alone together. Since he cut his shift short, and needs no sleep, they'll have a little time tonight and tomorrow morning before he has to leave for his next shift at 3 pm.

Bella can tell he's still extremely stressed, but she's just too emotionally drained herself to take care of him too. He's going to have to wear his big-boy pants for a while until she's had a few minutes to collect herself. She retreats to her bathroom to splash water on her face and empty her bladder and bowels since the station's excuse for a handicapped-access toilet was pathetic. She'd taken one look at it and given up, although Rose had made her go once with assistance, "Or your bladder might perforate," she'd warned. Bella hates being caught like that without options, and perhaps she should think about traveling with a spare catheter, in case. She's resisted it for years, but it's not sensible to be stubborn like that. Be that as it may, she feels much better once her human needs are taken care of.

Or most of them. When she exits, she can smell food cooking and her stomach rumbles in answer. She hasn't eaten since noon; it's now after 8 pm. Edward is in the kitchen, making her grilled cheese and tomato soup. "I know you like grilled cheese," he tells her, hearing her enter but not turning.

"Comfort food," she replies, and accepts the plate he brings over. "Thank you."

She eats in silence; he watches. Even after all this time, it feels a little weird to have him just watch while she eats, but she's also not at all sure what to say. She knows the two of them need to talk this out further but can she handle another stressful conversation tonight? When she's almost done, he says, "You look ready to collapse. Want me to help you get into bed?"

She recognizes the offer is as much for him as for her. He wasn't there today, and now he feels a need to assuage guilt (however pointless) by care-taking -- cooking for her, helping her get ready for bed . . . She sees how his hands are gripped together tightly on the tabletop. He may not need sleep, but he needs to be held as much as she does. "Come to bed with me," she says.

"I'd like that," he agrees.

Getting ready for bed with Edward's assistance takes half as long and soon they're curled up on their sides, nose to nose. "I had time to burn earlier today," he says, "so I got online and shopped around for properties between here and Atlanta. I know I suggested building a house for us, but we could get out of here faster if I found one to remodel." After tonight, Bella thinks he's that much more eager to get them their own place -- and he doesn't suggest that Esme and Emmett renovate it. Right now, she doubts he's eager to ask them for anything.

"It doesn't matter to me, Edward. I've learned not to be too particular about my living space. Most of the time, you have to take what you can find when you're like me."

"You shouldn't have to settle. I don't want you to have to settle ever again," he says. "But I don't want to stay here for months while we build something from scratch."

"We'll have to stay here at least until spring," she says. "Even if you bought a house tomorrow, contractors couldn't get much work done in _January_."

"I could do the work."

This makes her smile. "You have many talents, but I'd trust you to work on my brain before I trusted you to work on my plumbing. Have you ever actually _done_ remodeling work?"

"I've helped Esme!" he says. "And I can read a book or two."

She bites her lip to keep from laughing."You're such an academic, sweetheart." At his raised eyebrow, she explains, "You hate admitting there's something you might not know about. It's okay not to be the world's greatest living expert."

"I don't think I'm -- "

She shushes him with fingers on his lips. "You may not think it, but sometimes you act like it. Just let Emmett and Esme do what they're good at. After tonight, they owe us."

"But I don't want them to owe us!"

"What you mean is that you don't want to feel beholden to _them_ right now."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Same difference."

"Not really." She cups his cheek, studying his face in the dark. However immobile it can become, it's still a surprisingly expressive face. "You're not sure you want to forgive them, are you?"

"You'd think -- after everything that's happened -- they'd know better than to leave us out! Bella, you could have _died_ today and I wouldn't have been there!"

That's really the heart of it for him, and she can't blame him for the way his breath speeds up with delayed panic. She'd feel exactly the same if their places were reversed. Reaching out, she pulls him to her and he settles his head on her chest right above her breasts where he can hear her heart. Then he just breathes, struggling to calm himself.

"Sometimes we only learn from mistakes," she says after a long minute. "If we're lucky, those mistakes don't leave us in a wheelchair." Her voice is wry and he raises his head to glare at her, looking as if he wants to protest but she shakes her head against the pillow. "I told you once before, if you don't let me _own_ my mistake, it takes away my power to surmount it. Just like you had to own _yours_ from ten years ago -- and you did." She kisses his forehead because it's all she can reach. "Thank you, for tonight. You stood up for _me_; you didn't get pissy because Alice didn't tell you. You got pissy because she didn't tell me. I know she saw you hovering, but you'd have told me why -- and that means a lot."

"Of course I'd have told you." He sighs and lays his head back down. "I know Alice is probably right. I'd have hovered and you'd have gotten angry with me."

"No doubt. But then we could have fought about it and cleared the air, and that's better than being left in the dark just to keep us from fighting. That's what Alice needs to understand."

He raises his head again to look at her, then moves back to lie beside her where he can see her better. "She needs to understand we should fight?" He looks baffled.

"Absolutely." And now they're on _her_ home turf. "Edward, communication comes in _all_ forms -- including quarrels -- but it's essential to making ANY relationship work, even a marriage. Especially a marriage. If a couple _isn't_ fighting at least some of the time, that's not a good thing!"

This idea appears to startle him and he stares at her, dumbfounded. "Quarrels indicate a problem."

"No!" she says. "That's such a common misconception, but _not_ fighting is what indicates a problem! _Sniping_ is unhealthy. Even the wrong kind of teasing is unhealthy. But quarreling just means people can be honest with each other. If you never fight, you never learn how to fight fair. Then when something really big comes up that you can't agree on, you have no idea how to resolve it and everything falls apart! Fighting is _good_ as long as it's healthy fighting -- which means both sides being honest. No manipulation, no making decisions for somebody else, no guilting the other into doing what one wants. That's passive aggressive behavior, and it's maladaptive communication. It may work for a while, but eventually, it blows up in the person's face. Quarrels are _good_, Edward -- it's healthy communication as long as it stays fair and hatchets get buried when it's over."

His amber eyes are hooded. "You don't think there are things that just don't need to be said?"

"No." She shakes her head and brushes the bronzy hair off his forehead. "In my experience, it's not the 'what,' but the 'how' that causes hurt feelings. There are good ways of saying things, even potentially painful things . . . ways to open communication and ways to shut it down. But if you start hiding things, especially in intimate relationships, then they . . . turn into an abscess, to use medical terminology for you. It festers."

"And if you just don't agree?"

"Then it's important to know that -- confront it, and figure out how to live with it . . . or not. But pretending it's not there won't make it go away. If you _respect_ the other person, then you can respect that they can disagree and they're not stupid, or crazy, or out to get you. They just see the world differently."

His lips twitch. "Mark Twain said it's a difference of opinion that makes horse races."

It makes her chuckle. "Exactly."

"So fighting's okay?"

"Absolutely. I hope we fight sometimes -- or there's something wrong."

"Then _Alice_ was wrong. If we'd fought, it wouldn't have made you leave me."

"What? No!" Bella is astonished. "Is that what she told you on the phone?"

"Um, sort of."

Bella smirks and touches his cheek. "She told you something else but she knew that's what you'd _hear_, and it got you off her back. That's exactly the kind of communication that's not good. I think you, I and Alice need to have a chat when she gets back. She means well, but sometimes her ability to see the future gets in the way of her living in the present.

"And no, Edward. If I get angry with you, you'll hear about it from me. We'll fight it out. I asked you to promise me you wouldn't leave me again. Well, I promise you I won't shut you out because I'm mad at you. I know you love me, and you know I love you. But love alone isn't enough. We have to believe the other will stick around, or we'll never be able to be honest with each other for fear of losing the other person. That's what real commitment is based on -- that promise. You're stuck with me, Dr. Masen."

Out comes the crooked smile she adores. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

That settled, Bella feels more of the evening's coiled tension sliding away -- at least until he speaks again. "What happened today at Alice's store with Hannah's husband -- it's not uncommon, is it?"

After her spiel, she knows she needs to tell him the truth even if it might lead to an argument. "It's more common than people think -- but less common than you probably fear. I know you worry, and I won't lie, Edward. These things happen. The good news is that they usually end with less blood than today. I could probably have talked Brady down if Hannah hadn't reacted like she did. Diffusing tense situations is what I _do_, sweetheart. It's what I was trained for."

He laughs a little and runs his thumb up and down the skin of her upper arm. "You sure know how to diffuse _me_. Isn't that _manipulation_, though?"

"Smart ass. No. It would be manipulation if I said, 'But this is what I want to _do_, and you wouldn't want to make me unhappy, would you?' That's manipulation because it's using guilt against you. I want to be honest with you, but without hyperbole and melodrama. Working in a shelter is dangerous. You do get crazy husbands and boyfriends who want to do violence to their wives and S.O.s, or shelter workers. That's why their wives came to the shelter in the first place. Our job at the shelter is to retrain people how to problem-solve without resorting to violence. Hannah is . . . a work in progress. She's better, but she still hates Brady and knows just how to set him off. The really sad thing about today is that we've ended with a situation that's going to be three times as hard to deal with. And tomorrow, I'll have to get up early and go in and deal with it. But I sorta . . . I like doing this, Edward. I didn't think I would, and I'm not good at the empathic side of shelter work. But I'm good at finessing bad situations." She studies his face. A slight frown mars his brow and she uses her thumb to smooth it. "I have a suspicion I know what you're thinking. I'm in the chair and that makes me more vulnerable. Right?"

"Yes." He meets her eyes. "Bella, you want me to be honest so let's be honest here. You can't run. You can't move as fast as fully mobile people. I know how much you _can_ do, and I'm not putting that down, but -- "

"You don't need to apologize; I'm not offended. And you're right. But today, being in or out of a chair wouldn't have made a difference, would it? He had a gun. Only a vampire can outrun a bullet. What I'm doing is dangerous -- but I believe it's important enough to make the danger worth it. I believe in it. Sometimes that trumphs danger."

His smile is wry. "That's why I love you. Well, one reason. You're braver than I am." He leans in to kiss her. It's gentle. "I won't stop you, Bella. But we're going to have a talk with Alice about visions. And promise me this -- be brave, but don't be reckless. You _do_ have a bunch of vampires around you. Let us protect you."

"Oh, absolutely. I recognize the danger. I'm not stupid. If one of you wants to step in front of me to stop a bullet, be my guest."

His laugh is rough, but it's a laugh. She knows how much it costs him to give in on this -- or rather to reach a compromise. He's not stopping her, but she's not being absurd about her limits.

And now she needs to ask the big question -- confront the big pink elephant that's been sleeping in the bedroom with them. "What would happen if you did change me?" His eyes go wide at this and his lips part a little in surprise. "Rose told me that you told her changing me wouldn't mean I could walk again. I'd just assumed it would."

He doesn't answer her question; instead, he asks one of his own. "Do you really want to be changed? I know you said so, but Bella -- "

"I don't know," she admits. "I think I would. I wasn't kidding when I said I'm not ready to give you up yet. The problem is I'm not ready to give up my family yet either, but if I was dying, I'd be giving them up one way or the other, so if being changed meant I got to keep you, then I'd opt for keeping you. But I need to know what might happen if I were changed, before I really know for sure what I'd want."

He nods against the pillow. "I wish I could give you a definitive answer. I can't. And I told Rose that changing you wouldn't _necessarily_ mean you could walk again -- but it wouldn't necessarily mean you couldn't, either. I just don't know and I'm reluctant to try with such a big question mark out there." He licks his lips even though he doesn't really need to. It's a nervous habit left over from his human years. Whatever he thinks, he can still act and react like a human. "I've been looking into all of this for a while."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you never asked me, Bella. I thought it would be . . . presumptuous . . . of me to drop it on you without even knowing if you _wanted_ to be changed. And I still . . . I haven't changed my mind, really. I'd prefer to see you stay human. I _like_ you human. There are so many things . . . " he trails off and lifts a hand to draw his forefinger along her cheekbone. "I love your blushes, and your heartbeat, and your warmth, and your gray hair, and to watch you sleeping, and all those very human things that embarrass you." He grins. "I even like that you can fart and belch. Don't laugh!" She's biting her lips, half in embarrassment, half in amusement. "I love you human. If I could have any wish, it's that I could be human with you. To get old and wrinkled with you. Being seventeen forever sounds a lot more appealing than it actually is."

"Oh," she says, grinning back at him, "I'd hate being seventeen forever. But I must admit, there are advantages when it comes to your, ah, _stamina_." She thinks he'd be blushing if he could, but he just made her blush with that crack about 'human things,' so she doesn't feel too badly. "But giving up my family . . ." She trails off and he offers a nod for her to continue. "Martha . . . it would hurt her. She lost Mark and then to lose me . . . but she still has Jada and Rosa. I know children aren't interchangeable, but she wouldn't be left alone. For my parents, I'm all they have -- their only child. Dealing with me in the chair for the rest of my life was hard enough on them. If I 'died,' it would kill them. Especially my dad. He never says a lot, and we may not talk as much as I do with my mother, but she'd come to terms with it eventually. She'd be able to believe she'd see me in the afterlife, and she has Phil to take care of her. But Charlie . . . he'd never get over it. And he's all alone."

Now it's Edward's turn to raise a hand and stop her mouth. "Bella -- listen to me. I love how you think of others first. You always did, even when I first met you. But this is about _you_. It has to be about _you_. Not Renee, not Charlie, not Martha. Not me. You. So if _you_ don't want to be changed, don't be. It's not something I'd ask of you; it's not something I want for you. But I will _do_ whatever you choose because, in the end, it's not about me. It's your life."

And for the second time that night, Bella's throat closes from sheer emotion. "I love you," she finally manages, and knows she's crying. The hot sting in her eyes makes her blink as he wipes the tears away, touching one to his tongue to taste her. If she were changed, she'd lose that, and she knows it's yet one more thing Edward finds precious about her humanity. "Part of me wants to stay with you forever -- the romantic part. But a wiser part thinks a lifetime with you would be just fine, and maybe better."

"One lifetime is all I ever wanted, Bella. You know" -- he pauses as if weighing whether to say something -- "I'd follow you. I'd follow you when your life is over."

"I know," she says, and it bothers her a lot less now than a few days ago. Talking to Rose helped, and if she wants him to respect her choices even if they aren't ones he'd make for her, she has to do the same for him. "My soul would wait for yours."

"If I have a soul."

"Oh, you do. You know you do, Edward."

"Carlisle told me once that the surest proof I've got a soul is that I can worry I don't. I never really believed him before."

-- which implies that now he does believe.

After these exchanges, Bella hates to return to more mundane topics, but the big question never got answered. "What do you know about what would happen if you changed me? Why wouldn't the venom fix me?"

"Because the spinal cord break is healed." He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Understand this is purely speculation. I've not been able to find a vampire with even the approximation of your situation, nor does Carlisle know of any. We're not . . . we're not usually very forthcoming about our human lives, even if we remember them. We know that venom heals death wounds, or any other wound or imperfection in the body at the time of the Change." He glances over at her. "Carlisle tells me I had bad acne. The Change cleared it up even if it wasn't related to the influenza that killed me." Bella grins at the idea of Edward with acne, but probably shouldn't be surprised. He wasn't living in an era of dermatologists and Clearasil. "But, um, other things didn't get fixed." He glances down his body and Bella senses that he's suddenly shy. "You've seen that I, uh, well, I'm still circumcised."

"Yes, I did notice that." Mark hadn't been, but there are a lot of differences between Mark's body and Edward's -- starting with skin color -- so circumcision hadn't stood out to her.

"The foreskin didn't grow back. Like I said, most of us aren't forthcoming about our appearance or life before this one, so I can only be sure of my own family and none of them had permanent alterations to the body like circumcision. That's probably, er -- what's the word now -- 'TMI'?" He laughs a little. "The closest other thing I can be sure of is the break to Esme's leg that happened when she was sixteen. X-rays of her leg bone still show calcification from healing. The bone is whole -- but it's not like new."

Bella follows where he's going. "So if damage is healed, or something's amputated, it won't grow back?"

"I fear that's right. Although I have a theory of how I might be able to get around the problem of the break in your spine."

"Re-break it?" she suggests. It seems the obvious choice.

"No. We don't fully understand how the nerves in the body work and I'd have to cut out all the scarring . . . which would mean taking about half an inch out of your spinal cord. What if it doesn't grow back, like my foreskin? The brain and spinal cord are unique."

"But you said your foreskin incision was healed, which is why it didn't grow back."

"True. But again -- I'm not _sure_. And I'm not going to lop off somebody's arm or cut his spine, then change him, just to see if it fixed itself. That would be highly unethical!"

She can't help smiling. "True. But you had a theory . . . ? Not one that involves re-injuring me?"

"Yes. It's very similar to what might heal SCI anyway."

"Stem cells," she says, finally getting it.

"Stem cells," he confirms. "If I were to introduce stem cells at the site of your original injury, during the Change, they might become new neurons. That's why stem cells are so invaluable, and not just for this. They're undifferentiated and can become specialized as needed. When we finally master them, it'll revolutionize medicine. So _many_ incurable diseases and injuries will become curable -- not just SCI, but diabetes, Alzheimers, Lupus . . . " The excitement in his voice is palpable. "It's why I wanted to work in this field. I can help change people's lives. You, yes, of course, but others too." He stops. "I mean, yes, I was inspired by you, but -- "

"It's okay, Edward." She leans in to kiss his chin. "I like that you want to help more than just me."

"Either way, I think stem cells are the answer. We are _so close_. So much good work has been done in other countries and now that the bans have been lifted here . . . research is moving at warp speed. I'll see you walk again, or at least feel again. I swear it."

The excitement is back, and it makes her smile. It's contagious. It also makes her choice easier. "If I could walk again like I am, I'd be happy with that."

"So would I," he says.

"And if I could walk as a vampire . . . I guess I'd be happy with that too. In an emergency." She frowns.

He nods, studying her face. "What about in ten years? Or twenty?" He licks his lips again. "I know we said that if we have a long, happy life together, that would be good enough. And it would be. But what if you get breast cancer at fifty? That's not tomorrow -- but it's not seventy, either."

"I don't know," she tells him. "I don't know what I'd want to do. I do know I wouldn't want to be old and decrepit and immortal. But fifty and immortal? That's not young, but it's not so old. Still, you'd look half my age."

"I'm going to look half your age anyway if you stay human. And it's not your body I see when I look at you -- not really. It's your spirit."

"I know. Same here. You're not seventeen to me; you're unique. Can we . . . can we cross that bridge if we get to it?"

"Okay. But it won't matter to me if you're forty or fifty, Bella." His lips curl up. "I don't care what you look like. It's not who you are -- or who I am."

"No, it's not," she agrees, then snuggles up to him and lets him hold her and rub her back until she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

**Notes:** Human Edward with acne is a nod to Minisinoo's "This is My Beloved Son." I was really struck by the image of a teenaged Edward with zits. Sometimes people make him a little TOO perfect. As a vamp, he's physically perfect. As a human, he'd have had some normal faults. So MY idea of human Edward has acne and was nearsighted. :-)


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes:** The day after the shooting incident. Real life descends.

* * *

Bella has to be at the shelter early the next day to begin addressing the disaster of the day before, tackling both the monumental and mundane. Not only is there media to respond to, and more inquiries from law enforcement -- not to mention the legal ramifications -- but the surprise attack by Brady meant no grocery shopping was done and the shelter is out of milk and other staples. Yet as Maddie is in her last week before finals, Bella can hardly expect her to skip class to run to Kroger's. "God, I hate asking you this," Bella says to Edward as she searches through her briefcase for the grocery list. She dressed a bit nicer today than usual because she'll likely be talking to lots of official people. "But I need some help."

He kneels down in front of her chair and takes her busy hands in his, stilling them. "What do you need me to do?

He's been a saint since she got up, making her breakfast, packing her a lunch, getting clothes for her when she realized she'd taken the wrong underpants into the bathroom with her ... and there was no time for sex at all. He didn't even ask. "Grocery shopping," she says now, trying to suppress a grin. "I know, I know -- vampires grocery shopping -- "

"It's fine," he tells her. "What do you need?" He glances around the kitchen.

"It's not for me, it's for the shelter." She hands him the list she made while sitting in the police station yesterday.

He glances down the items. "Any particular brand of frosted flakes?" he asks.

"Generic. We shop on a budget." She hands him the shelter's bank card. His name is already on it as he's needed to use it before to get medical supplies, if never milk, cereal and sugar. "Don't get any extras," she warns. "It's December, so things are tight with the holidays. Cheapest fresh fruit, red peppers only if they cost less than green -- etcetera."

"Got it, boss."

She doesn't quite trust him. His eyes have a _glint_, but she's desperate. "Thank you. For everything." She pulls his head in to kiss him. "I'm sorry for sending you shopping instead of spending the morning in bed with you, but you're wonderful and I promise to make it up to you Friday night."

He laughs. "You look like you're going in four directions at once this morning. This is the least I can do." He stands. "You don't need to make it up to me, but I'll look forward to Friday all the same. See you shortly at the shelter."

It still takes her twenty minutes before she can get out of the house, and thankfully, someone went to the shelter last night to bring the van back so she has something to drive. She spends her morning on the phone and barely even hears when Edward arrives with the groceries, except that Denise, one of the little girls currently living there, is squealing in excitement over "Chocolate!"

_Oh, God,_ Bella thinks, rubbing her temples. _He got extras anyway._ She should know better than to send a man -- even a vampire man -- to the grocery store with a list and strict instructions to follow it. Mark had never been able to walk out with only what was on a list, either. At least Bella can't blame it on sending him shopping while hungry.

He slips in her door and closes it behind him. She looks up. "You bought extras."

"On my dime." He hands her the recipts -- both of them. "You can put it with the donations." He knows she has to keep track of such things for tax purposes, and when she looks at the "donation" bill, it really isn't that much, only $34 and some change.

"What did you get?"

"Mostly Christmas candy. There are kids here. They need candy canes."

"And chocolate."

"And chocolate."

"Their mothers are going to hate you for the caffeine fix."

He chuckles and sits down in the chair in front of her desk, stretching out his long legs. "But the kids love me -- which means the next time I have to give them an exam or a shot, they might not scream as loudly. Or at least, they might trust me better if I say it won't hurt . . . much."

"Sugar-bribery will get you everywhere. Especially with the under-twelve crowd."

"I hope it's still effective for the over-twenty-eight crowd." He pulls a bag out of his pocket and pushes it across her desk.

"Ooooh," she moans, hurrying to open it. "Linden cream-filled truffles!"

"I thought you might need that today. I'd have gone by a real confectioner, but I was in a hurry and that's about the best chocolate the store had."

"Even Hershey's would do today. At the rate things are going, I may finish this entire bag before noon."

"That bad, huh?"

"Don't get me started. I just got off the phone with Rose. Brady's arraignment will be scheduled as soon as he's out of Habersham County Medical, and he'll likely be offered cash-bail."

"Bail?" Edward sounds shocked.

"Rose will argue he's a flight risk, of course, but our judge is the same one we've had trouble with before. Brady may be the black sheep, but his _family_ still has a lot of strings to pull."

"Isn't this a capital crime? Assault with a deadly weapon?"

"No, it's only a felony-two because it wasn't successful, plus it's his first charge involving a weapon and the only injury was to _himself_. The question is whether the judge will set a high bail, and the answer is probably not. The restraining order will also be reconsidered and modified, but I'm worried. We know Brady's impulsive and routinely makes bad choices. Now he's feeling increasingly boxed in, which makes him desperate. I'm afraid he might run. But I talked to Hannah this morning, and she's more afraid he'll try to sue for custody. He doesn't want the girls, but he'll want this baby if it's a boy. He can demand a paternity test, I think, and then he'll have a claim on the baby -- although if we get the right judge, I'm pretty sure we can make a case that he shouldn't have custody and possibly not even contact. Storming into Alice's shop with a gun is a good argument against that." Her tone is snide. Edward has been nodding.

"In any case, we need to settle Hannah's situation before the baby's born, but a paternity suit could require her to stay in White County, or at least in Georgia. She needs to leave the state -- preferably a long way away -- and start over. Brady is more rooted to this area than she is." She pauses and studies Edward. "Can we get her an ultrasound to determine the baby's gender? She's pretty sure if it's a girl, Brady's interest will disappear. She's at five months now, isn't she?"

"Twenty-one weeks. I'll talk to her OB; he probably already has one scheduled." He sits back and glances at the door to be sure it's closed. In a soft voice, he says, "I can talk to the technician too. Depending on who it is, I might be able to get her, or him, to hedge even if she's pretty certain it's a boy. That wouldn't be an out-and-out lie. Gender determination can be tricky and if finding out the baby is possibly a girl would make him sign away his rights . . . "

"I love your sneaky mind, Dr. Masen. She was hoping to claim Brady isn't the father even though she's pretty sure he is."

"She's only _pretty_ sure?" Edward's expression is priceless.

"Don't ask," she warns him. "It just gets ugly."

He snorts. "Well, she was sure it was Brady's when I first checked her out."

"Apparently there's reason for doubt. Or maybe she's just capitalizing on Brady's accusations that she was having an affair behind his back with one of his hunting buddies _and_ with her brother's best friend."

"Two other guys?" Head lowered, he pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks up at her from the corner of his eyes. "How do people get themselves into situations like this? Don't they realize how crazy it looks from the outside?"

"Oh, this case isn't that crazy, Edward. It's just a little crazy." She raises her hand to show about an inch between thumb and forefinger. "We've seen crazier. The main problem here is that they both have serious anger management problems and lack a lot of common life skills, but only one of them is doing anything about it. I'm pretty sure Hannah's saying whatever it takes to get Brady off her back, but I need to have one of our counselors talk to her, because claims of infidelity could come back to bite her at a trial. Finding out the baby is a girl is probably a better tact . . . assuming it turns out to be."

"He's got three other girls and the likelihood of fathering boys decreases slightly as a man ages -- not that he's really old enough for that to matter yet, but I'd say chances are quite good the fetus is female."

"Let's keep our fingers crossed."

Edward hangs out at the shelter until noon. He plays Uno with some of the children, which surprises Bella. Rose adores playing with them but typically Edward's only contact with them is for physicals or to patch up bumps and bruises or give vaccines. He's not bad with them, clearly having more patience for kids than their former high school classmates, but he does talk over their heads at times. And when one of the little girls gets brave and sits on his knee, he just looks awkward, like he's not sure what to do. "I think you have an admirer," Bella tells him later.

He shrugs. "I'm surprised she wanted to get that close -- reminds me of you, actually. Most humans are attracted to us but keep some physical distance. She . . . didn't."

Bella just laughs at him. "She's eight and you're cute . . . and safe -- and yes, some little girls do start that young. Wait till she asks you to marry her."

His face is pained. "I wouldn't know how to answer that." His eyes meet hers. "Can I say I'm taken? What do we tell the people here?"

Her own smile turns to a frown. "I think it would be . . . hard . . . for us to pretend we're still just friends. Maddie's figured it out; she assumes we're seeing each other. Maybe that's enough for now. We don't need to get more specific, and a lot of people date a long time. I can get away with not taking you home to Charlie if you're 'just' a boyfriend, whereas if you're a fiancé or husband, I can't." She takes a deep breath. "I'll have to tell Martha, I guess."

"You said she said you should start seeing people."

"She did. But telling me to do so and actually finding out I am . . . those are two different things. She's . . . very wise. But she's still my late husband's mother."

He nods. "Being your boyfriend is a good story for the next couple years. It'll simplify a lot but not cause too many ripples." He bends then to kiss her goodbye. "You're still my wife though, in my head," he whispers.

"You're still my husband," she whispers back.

All things considered, the next few days pass with surprisingly few bumps. Brady's shoulder surgery goes well and if he'll need physical therapy -- and likely be unable to continue doing heavy construction work -- he'll be fine in the end. Fortunately for the shelter, whatever local sway the family has stops at the police-station doors. Brady has been a trouble-maker too long. Between his rap sheet and the testimony of the shop customer, no charges will be pressed against Esme. _The White County News_ runs the story inside on the bottom of 5A, instead of the bottom-front where Bella had expected it (given the quiet nature of the area). They lucked out, because new Environmental Protection Agency regulations were released Monday that would affect state and national parks -- one of which is right next door to Helen -- so national news trumped local and took a 72-point headline on the top deck right below the masthead, along with a couple of companion pieces and info-graphics. Yet Bella also wonders if the newspaper editor may have made a discernment choice, slipping it back in the section so as to draw less attention to it. She did call Bella to ask if she could do an editorial on the shelter here and the importance of shelters generally -- no pictures to maintain confidentiality -- which Bella gratefully granted.

Friday morning, Carlisle drops by her office. Edward is supposed to pick her up at noon to go sign a bunch of papers, so she's a little surprised when Carlisle knocks on her half-open door and sticks his head in. "Bella? Have you got a minute?"

"Yes, of course!" She lays down her pen and rolls out from behind the desk. It doesn't feel right to sit back there with Carlisle in the room. He commands a unique respect. He closes the door, takes a seat and leans over, hands clasped before him. "How's Esme?" Bella asks.

"She's doing better, thank you for asking. The last few days haven't been easy for her, but I think . . . Well, I can't condone violence, but this was a monumental event for her healing, to be able to protect another who depended on her. In a way, it was Esme protecting the young woman she once was."

Bella nods. Her mind is spinning, trying to figure out what brought Carlisle here. "I'm not still angry at her. She knows that, right?"

"I think she does, Bella." He smiles faintly. "But I'm not here about Esme, although we're both terribly appreciative of how you've gone to bat not only for the shelter and Hannah, but for Esme too with both the press and local law enforcement."

"Esme has become the heart of this shelter. It wouldn't be right to do less."

He nods. "She'd be happy to hear that. But what I came about was to tell you that I plan to open a local general practice. The regional hospital is down in Habersham County and I don't want to commute to Demorest, at least not daily. More to the point, in this era of specialization, GPs are becoming too few and far between, if more critical than ever, especially in these rural areas. Yet it's what I trained to be originally, and what I still love best . . . to be an old-fashioned family doctor." He lowers his voice so it won't carry. She must lean forward to hear him. "The fact I have so many years experience and have specialized in several fields also allows me to bring a level of care most GPs can't hope to provide. I firmly believe that rural communities deserve that no less than big cities."

Bella is sure this is all true, but she's still a little baffled as to why he's here. He smiles at her and says, "I've purchased a small office building about two miles down the county road. Esme and Emmett are already working on plans to remodel it as a medical practice with lab and out-patient surgery, but I wanted it to be close because I want to make it available for your clients when something more is needed than your pantry-cum-clinic. I'll also be happy to assist Edward with clinic work here. While I think this volunteer service has been good for him -- and I don't want him to stop, by any means -- I'd . . . like to have something to share with him. There are times when he's on duty in Atlanta but you may need a doctor 'in the house,' so to speak, without taking clients thirty minutes down State Road 17 to the closest ER. All fees at my practice will be waived, of course, although government health insurance makes that a little easier these days."

Bella is sure her mouth is hanging open. This is so much more than she could have hoped for. Even Edward's volunteer time just supplements their nurse. To have Carlisle literally down the road in walking distance (if a long walk), is a godsend. And as much as she respects Edward's skill, Carlisle has been practicing medicine for over 150 years. In that time, he's been not only a family doctor, he's done internal med, orthopedics, cardiology, endocrinology, oncology, pediatrics, and acted several times as head resident for ERs around the country. He's a walking encyclopedia of medical expertise . . . free. "Thank you," she says with complete sincerity.

He smiles. "You're more than welcome. Bella, I couldn't be prouder of what you, Rose, Esme and Alice have built here. And Emmett and Edward and Jasper, too, of course -- but it's mostly my girls . . . if you'll forgive me the old-fashioned language. It's extraordinary. I want to help. My time overseas was a great blessing. I feel renewed, as both a physician and a human being -- so to speak, but one doesn't have to go halfway around the world to be of service."

He starts to rise, but Bella blurts out, "Could I ask a question, and your opinion?"

"Certainly." He sits back down.

Bella drops her eyes. "I've been trying to think of something for Edward for Christmas. I have an idea but . . . I wanted to talk to you about it, and I'd need your help anyway." Carlisle appears curious and nods for Bella to go on. "This is something only I can give him, and otherwise, I can't get him anything he couldn't get for himself -- "

"Bella, that's not the measure of a good present, you know -- "

"I know. And I know it's not about what I spend, either, but I'd really like to give him something _special_. I'm just not sure about the . . . etiquette?"

Carlisle's head tilts. "The etiquette? You mean for a man born in Edward's time?"

"No. I mean, ah, vampire etiquette. I want to give him a pint of my blood." She blurts it out and can see how much the suggestion startles him. "I know that may sound a little crazy, but people donate blood all the time for hospitals. This would be more, um, _personal_, but it's not like it would hurt me or cost anything. And for him, it would be like getting, I don't know, Dom Perignon. It's the one thing I can give him that I know he really wants, and that only I can provide. It'd be giving him something of myself."

She's actually managed to leave Carlisle speechless. She hopes it's not with horror as she knows his policy on drinking human blood but this isn't the same at all, to her mind. Finally, he sits up and says, "Bella, that's . . . very gracious." And she can tell just from the tone of his voice that he's going to turn her down. "It's also -- forgive me -- an extremely bad idea." His smile is sardonic. "I think I understand why you're offering, and it's uncommonly accepting of who he is. But it would be like offering a 20-year sober member of AA a bottle of good French wine."

Bella feels her face fall. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." Carlisle leans in and covers her hand with both of his. "It's a beautiful offer, but you must understand it would be a terrible temptation. If he were to taste your blood, it might drive him into such a frenzy, he'd kill you for the rest. And that would kill him more surely than any stake through his heart. Moreover, it's against what we stand for, to drink from humans."

Sighing, Bella runs a hand through her hair. "I was afraid you'd say that. I know you don't drink human blood and why, but this would be a gift. He wouldn't be taking it or taking a human life. I'd be giving it. It'd cost me so very little and give him something unique."

"I understand that, and it's actually a lovely gesture -- in theory. But this is less about philosophy than possible danger to you. Even if he could manage to drink it and not instantly attack you, it would undo all the work he's done to be around you. Just the _offer_ of such a thing might be too much. I'm quite certain he'd turn it down, at least at first. But the idea would sit in the back of his mind and become a terrible temptation. That wouldn't be good."

"He once called me his personal heroin."

Carlisle is clearly amused. "Unfortunately, that's not a bad metaphor -- up to and including the highly addictive nature of the drug."

So much for that idea. Bella wonders if she should be embarrassed even to have brought it up, but he says, "Don't be ashamed." He probably noticed her blush, or smelled it. "I'm glad you love him enough to offer; it shows you can accept him for who he is. There's nothing of shame in that. But I'm also glad you did ask me first." Carlisle leans forward and says, "What I think he'd like most is your time. Your touches. Your kisses. Your human warmth. You've made him a very happy man these last few weeks -- last few months, really. I've only ever seen him like this once before -- ten years ago in Forks. And to be truthful, I think that was but a moon's glow to the sun of his joy now. He feels complete with you. If you want to make him happy, give him a wedding ring. A simple gold band, I think. Edward isn't keen on flash. He might not be able to wear it often, but it would mean the world to him. He wants to wear your ring as you wear his. Have it engraved on the inside with something just for him. That will be the best present -- Christmas or otherwise -- that you could give him."

Bella nods. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome," Carlisle says. Then standing, he bends to kiss the top of her head and departs.

Bella ponders their exchange, then opens her phone to call Rose. "Edward has claimed me for the afternoon, but could you and I go ring shopping tomorrow afternoon?"

* * *

**Notes:** A little wedding mush next time around! I hope to have up the next part by the weekend!


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes:** The 'wedding.' Everybody needs a little sap once in a while!

* * *

"With this ring, I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Edward's voice is barely a whisper, and even if he weren't a vampire, he knows he'd be as white as a sheet right now. He can't faint but feels like he's about to as he slides his mother's ring (back) into place on Bella's left hand. She smiles across at where he sits opposite her. Figuring out the logistics of this exchange of vows had been awkward until Bella had just suggested everyone remain seated. After all, no one is officiating, and no one is standing up with them. It's just his family, and Bella. They already went to a J.P. a week ago once the paperwork was finished, and before that came the real vows in her -- their -- bedroom. This is just a formality.

Bella's voice is more steady as she takes his own left hand in hers -- which surprises him. This isn't part of the traditional ceremony. In the old one -- the one he'd selected -- only the man gave a ring. But Bella reaches into her dress, in the space between her breasts, and pulls out a ring of her own. Emmett whistles, and Edward hears somebody smack him. He's not sure who, though, because he can't take his eyes off the little gold band in her fingers. She slips it onto his shaking hand -- it's warm from her body -- and says, "With this ring, I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow -- not that I have many -- in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

He doesn't need anybody to tell him to kiss her. Around them, their family claps and laughs. Then claps harder and whistles when he won't let her go. She's laughing against his mouth.

After, the family hugs them both, congratulating them, although it feels oddly anticlimactic to Edward. He mostly wants them to go away so he can have Bella to himself for the rest of the evening, ungrateful though that sounds. But he hasn't seen her for three days. Taking duty for Christmas Eve morning had been his last bit of penance before being off for three days in a row. Well, three nights, two days. He owes them New Year's Eve too, but doesn't care. His ring is on Bella's finger and -- unexpectedly -- hers is on his, their vows echoing in his mind with perfect recall. They'd opted (well, he'd opted) for something completely traditional. If so much else about this marriage must be unconventional, he'd wanted the words they said to be familiar and comforting, and Bella had agreed. She and Mark had written their own vows but she understands why he didn't want to. So the words they said tonight were the same ones he might have said in 1918 if he'd known her then, lifted directly from an old Episcopalian _Book of Common Prayer_ from 1892. _I, Edward Anthony, wilt have this woman to be my wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony. I wilt love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep only unto her as long as we both shall live._

Bella's vows had been similar, with one exception. She'd asked to remove the words 'obey' and 'serve' -- which weren't in his -- and he'd agreed. He understood why that might be distasteful to her. She'd put in 'comfort' instead, like his.

Now, he watches her talk to Esme in the cabin kitchen while Jasper pops the cork on a bottle of champagne, then pours a finger's worth of into eight glasses as Emmett passes them out. Edward is a bit surprised, but takes his. "It's traditional," Jasper says, "to offer a toast. For this, I think we not only can, but should, take a few sips of the bubbly. You can always spit it out later."

"Eww!" Alice says. "It's not necessary to state the obvious, Jazz." The rest of them laugh, even Bella.

Jasper ignores his wife. "So" -- he raises his coupe -- "to Edward and Bella. May you have a long and joyful life together. I'd say 'fruitful,' too, but I don't think that's going to happen."

"Fruitful in _ideas_," Esme corrects. "Fruitful in ideas."

"Here, here!" Emmett adds and raises his own coupe . . . then drinks the whole thing down in one gulp, even if it's only a swallow. The face he makes is funny. The rest of them (except Bella) take just a sip. The carbonization explodes on Edward's tongue and he doesn't care for it but manages to swallow with a straight face.

Alice produces a little cake then. Well, really a _cupcake_. On top are two perfect sugar roses, one red, one white. She hands Edward a little knife with a white pearl handle. "You're going to make me eat half of that?" he asks her.

She laughs; so does Bella. "Just a bite, Edward. It's traditional. Bella has to feed you."

"And I don't think a opossum would be appropriate wedding food," Bella adds.

Emmett bursts out laughing so hard he actually doubles over and Edward must then explain the opossum incident after handing the knife to Bella to let her cut the cupcake. She feeds him a bite, which she doesn't smear on his face. He isn't so nice. Icing makes a white streak from her lips across her left cheek, leaving her indignant but giggling. Esme actually spanks him. He's too happy to care.

Once the formalities are finished and Bella's mouth and cheek are clean, Carlisle steps forward, setting his champagne glass on the table. "Let us bow in prayer," he says. They obey, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone back in time over three hundred years. Edward hears Carlisle as he might have sounded in 1663.

_"O Eternall God, creatour and preserver of all mankynd, giver of all spirytuall grace, the aucthour of everlastyng life: Send thy blessyng upon these thy servauntes, thys man and this woman, whom we blesse in thy name, that as Isaac and Rebecca lyved faithfully together: So these persons may surely performe and kepe the vow and covenaunt betwixte them made, wherof this ring -- _these_ rings, geven and received, are a token and pledge, and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy lawes, thorough Jesus Christ our Lorde."_ Carlisle steps forward then, taking Edward's hand and laying Bella's in it. _"Those whome God hath joyned together, let no man put a sonder. God the Father, God the Sonne, and God the holy Ghost, blesse, preserve, and kepe you, the Lord mercifully wyth his favour loke upon you, and so fil you with al spiritual benediction, and grace, that you may so lyve together in thys life, that in the world to come, you may have everlastying life. Amen."_

"Amen," the rest of them echo, even Bella.

"You didn't pronounce us husband and wife," Bella says when she opens her eyes to look up at Carlisle.

He smiles. "I was only ever ordained a deacon for my father, not a priest." His voice has gone back to what Edward considers familiar with no trace of the past. "I can't pronounce you. We'll let God -- and your hearts -- do that."

All of them trail out less than half an hour later. Esme is taking shelter duty tonight, and Carlisle with her, so she can be present on Christmas morning to see the children open presents. It's the first time since she was human that she'll be around children on Christmas morning and watching them will be her best gift of all. That this also leaves the cabin to Edward and Bella is probably more a side benefit than the reason, but Edward isn't complaining.

When everyone is gone and he's finally alone with his wife, the two of them just sit in the little den and stare at each other. His heart is full to bursting and he can't speak for the joy singing inside his chest. All the Christmas lights are still on, the fireplace and candelabra lit, turning the house and riverside porch into a fairyland of brilliant color, white lilies and poinsettias, and iridescent fabric streamers. Alice outdid herself on the decor, but Edward isn't paying much attention. He thinks it all just the velvet setting for the jewel he approaches to kneel in front of. Smiling, she strokes his cheek. "Dance with me," he asks her.

Both her eyebrows lift. "I can't dance. Sort of paralyzed here."

"You said you couldn't dance when you were walking too. I showed you that you can. Let me dance with you now. I can hold you up."

"Silly man. My legs will dangle and look ridiculous."

"Who's watching?"

"Point," she allows. "Music?"

"Give me a minute."

He goes to the controls of his little black recording equipment stashed behind the piano -- which will all be moved tomorrow. Esme is sad about it but agreed the piano should follow Edward. She'll get another so he can play for her when he's over here, but this Bösendorfer is his baby. Even if he could easily buy another, it wouldn't be _this_ one that Edward has honed over the years to exactly the resistance and sound he desires. Now, he searches through the recordings for the one he wants, then sets it to play, coming back to Bella.

As he lifts her out of the chair, holding her up against him with an arm around her waist, she says, "I don't recognize this."

He smiles. "It's new. I wrote it for us, for tonight. Do you like it?"

Her eyes shine from sudden dampness. It's the first time she's come close to crying all evening. "I like it very much. It's beautiful." Sighing, she drapes a hand over his shoulder and lets him grip her other in his free hand. As they move to the quiet melody, she lays her head on his chest. He can feel her breath and her heartbeat all the way down to his bones, and whatever she feared, he doesn't find this either awkward or ridiculous. She's wearing a long gown of forest-green silk that shows off her muscled shoulders but covers her legs. He moves them slowly as they waltz around the center of Esme's den. With a thousand tiny lights catching in the rhinestone pins holding back her dark hair, her pale skin and the pine-dark dress, she is a vision of Christmas -- evergreen and snow, light and one red ruby droplet on her chest.

"That's Rose's necklace." He only now notices. "It's her birthstone." She'd been wearing it the night Royce had killed her, but Edward doesn't say that. He wonders if it's a bad omen.

Bella just smiles. "I didn't know it was her birthstone. She wanted me to wear it -- something old, and borrowed."

"What's new and blue?"

"Ah, ah . . . you'll have to wait to find out, Dr. Masen."

Laughing, he spins her around and wonders how fast he can get her to bed. But truth be told, he's not really in a hurry. They dance a while, then sit out on the porch and listen to the river. She's snuggled beside him on a little patio divan, their heated blanket covering them both against the December cold. Inside, the clock strikes ten. "Two hours till Christmas," she says and takes a sip of the leftover champagne.

"Mmm." He's not really paying attention, or not to her words. He's paying a lot of attention to the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling and kissing it. He lets one hand trail down her arm to cup her breast, kneading gently.

"Has anybody ever told you that you have a one-track mind?"

"I want to find out what's new and blue."

Her laugh is a little breathless and her nipple has hardened under his fingers. "Let's find a bedroom. I doubt there's anybody watching us at this hour in this cold and across the river, but I'd rather show off what's blue in privacy."

He's on his feet with her in his arms in a blink, tugging the blanket's plug out of the socket as he carries her inside. Yanking the cord inside, he closes the sliding glass door and carries her upstairs to his bedroom, or what used to be his bedroom. He'd opened the futon couch earlier and covered it in soft flannel sheets. Silk might be more romantic, but it would also feel cold to Bella. Now he lays her down, then skins out of his tux and underwear in seconds, tossing them wherever they land. She giggles watching him but he's on the bed to get at her a breath later. "No, no," she says. "Stand up and turn around."

"What?"

"You heard me." With a sigh, he does so, listening as she disrobes behind him. He can hear the zipper and rustle of silk. Two full minutes pass. "Okay," she says finally. "You can turn back."

When he does, his breath hitches. She's wearing . . . she's wearing . . . a pale blue eyelet linen corset, just like she might have worn if she'd been born in his time. The effect on him is instantaneous and if he'd had blood, he'd have been flushed scarlet. This undergarmet that covers her to her ankles is far more sexy to him than any modern teddy or lacy camisole. She's spread across red flannel, her hair loose, the pink of her nipples and dark triangle of her pubic hair just visible through thin fabric. He's weak in the knees and as hard as a rock. She smiles at him with a mixture of innocence and allure, then holds out a hand. "Lie with me."

He scrambles to obey, kissing her with frantic urgency and muttering, "Where did you find that?"

"A gift from Alice," she replies between kisses. "I think she's still trying to make it up to us for concealing her visions. I don't know if she found this or made it, but I think she found it. There's a tag in the back. Does 'Barker's' mean anything to you?"

He laughs. "Yes. Yes, it does. We'll be very careful with this; it's probably a hundred years old."

"Wow," she whispers against his mouth, then confesses, "It makes me feel surprisingly . . . _hot_."

His reply to that is a simple grunt. "Hot" may be an understatement. He undoes the ties at the front with gentle fingers, then slips the shoulder straps down. This is his Christmas present. He uses his left hand, where the gold band marks him taken. Her breasts fall free and if he's seen them before, somehow this is different. Bending, he closes his mouth over one nipple and feels it pucker against his cool tongue. She lets out a soft sigh and runs her hands through his hair.

Overwhelmed but wanting this to last, he undresses her by inches, revealing more and more pink skin as he goes, and if this isn't their first time, or even their tenth, it's the first he lets himself risk being above her. "I want to feel your weight on me," she whispers. "Can we try?"

"If you promise to stop me if I hurt you," he says as he pushes up the lacy hem of the corset.

"I think you'll be fine, Edward."

And he is. It's not wildly passionate -- he's too concerned about breaking her, and experienced enough that the sensations don't overwhelm him now. He makes sure they have plenty of KY, then takes his time. It's sweet. It's slow. They giggle now and then, and kiss a lot, and if he gets a little vigorous towards the end, it's more a hurried rock than a punishing thrust. He feels her nails on his back, scratching gently, or at least it feels gentle to him and sends him sailing over the edge, out into space. His chin comes up and he lets out a long groan. He feels no need to bite her. This is significant to him.

They lie together quietly then, nose to nose, before he takes his turn making her moan. Her orgasm is stronger than his was, but he likes that. She gets fewer of them -- just a fact of life for her -- so every time he helps her reach her stars, he feels his chest puff with pride. He can give her this. After, he spreads the heated blanket over them again. "You should look inside your ring, sweetheart," she says.

"Huh?"

"Your wedding ring."

"It's inscribed?"

"Yes. Read it."

He pulls it off and looks inside. The words are in Latin. _Amor est vitae essentia ... Isabella & Edward_ "Love is the essence of life," he whispers. It strikes him that she used her full given name, too.

"You worry too much about not being -- technically -- alive. When you think that, remember what your ring says. It's not a beating heart that makes you live. It's the ability to love."

He lets her slide the ring back on his finger then kisses her throat, right over the jugular. The scent of her nearly sends him mad with pleasure but he still doesn't want to bite. This is his miracle. "If love makes me live, then I am the most vital undead person on the planet."

She laughs.

* * *

**Notes:** Their vows do come from the 1892 Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer, and the prayer Carlisle gives comes from the Anglican marriage service of 1559. I hope the archaic spelling didn't give readers too many fits, but I wasn't sure how otherwise to convey that he's dropped back into King James English. The Anglican church didn't get a new prayer book until 1662 -- just a year before Carlisle died -- and given that his father didn't have a fancy church, I doubt they could've afforded the new version yet, or that Carlisle would have learned the liturgies from it. I have no idea if he was ever really ordained a deacon, but as it seems he was intended to follow his father, and he was giving sermons, I expect he probably was.

Images of Bella's corset nightdress, the ruby necklace and an approximation of Bella's gown are all available on both my ff-net profile and in my Live Journal gallery, for those of you who like the little details. As Edward's narrating, he's not inclined to give detailed descriptions. Vampire or not, he's still a _guy_. ;)

I should have another part ready early next week. :-) We are, finally, getting towards the end.


	54. Chapter 54

**Part Summary:** The dark months pass and spring blooms.

**AN IMPORTANT NOTE:** This story is now complete in draft. I'll be posting it through August, if not necessarily a part a day. I'm still not exactly sure how I'm going to cut up the end, whether I post a few parts that combine short POV scenes, or maintain the pattern I've used of 1 part = 1 POV scene. (These aren't really 'chapters' but scenes, which is why there are so many supposed chapters. It IS a long story, but not 54 chatpers worth!) Anyway I wanted people to know that it IS all done, and I won't leave you dangling long between parts. There are between 12 or 16 left, depending. After it's over, I'll be posting some end notes and final words.

Also, a quick reminder that this story IS up for A Bellie in the category of "AU You Imagine as Canon," and voting goes through August 5th at 9pm Eastern. :-) You can vote at www(dot)thecatt(dot)net.

* * *

Brady is released from the hospital the week after Christmas and his arraignment is held on January 3rd. He pleads "not guilty." It's no surprise really; Rose expects his lawyer will make a case for 'temporary insanity.' He's out on bail by January 5th, but his trial is set for June. His defense team wants it slow so the incident won't be fresh in the minds of the jury. Meanwhile, they're pressing for custody in the divorce case.

Hannah's ultrasound comes back with the gender verdict of "girl."

"The technician didn't even have to fudge," Edward tells Bella later. "I got a look at the images. It's a girl." But Brady doesn't withdraw his custody claim. He wants rights to all of four of them.

"His lawyer's told him that'll look better for the assault case, I'm afraid," Rose explains to a furious Hannah. "It's what I'd have advised him. It doesn't matter if he really wants them. If they plan to plead temp-insanity, it's got to look like he wants his kids or it won't hold water."

Bella is reminded of a quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes: _"This is a court of law, young man, not a court of justice."_

As frustrating as the situation with Hannah grows, Bella's private life sails smoothly. Being married to Edward is like slipping into a comfortable sweatshirt. She's so happy, she fears there must be a law against it somewhere. Slowly they let the others in their lives (besides the Cullens) know about their altered relationship, even if they're posing as no more than boy- and girlfriend. The shelter residents tease them a little but Edward's fellow residents tease him more when she shows up as his date to a winter soiree at the home of one of his supervisors. Lorraine is happy for her -- not least because she's making headway on her dissertation, buoyed by a home life that is simple and sweet. In the evenings, she writes on her laptop while he plays for her when he's home -- sometimes for hours. It's lovely to have an untiring pianist at her beck-and-call. It's even better to have a lover with a man's patience and a boy's stamina. Best of all are the quiet conversation they share either in front of the fire, or upstairs in Rose's jacuzzi. "We are so getting one of these for our house," she tells Edward one evening. He laughs and sloshes over to her, stealing kisses.

"Your wish is my command."

Valentine's Day morning, a Wednesday, Bella finds a vase on her desk at the shelter filled with a dozen roses -- but not all red. Eleven are red. One is yellow. She remembers a year ago and his one yellow rosebud; her heart twists with joy as she touches the yellow petals. Twice now, she's married her best friend. She's a lucky woman. But it reminds her and later that day, she calls her mother, then Martha to see if they got their cards. They did. "How're you doin', hon?" Martha asks her.

Bella bites her lip, then says, softly. "I . . . uh, I think I've found someone."

Silence. Afraid, she closes her eyes. But then Martha says, "Really? Tell me about him."

"His name's Ed. He's a doctor. He volunteers here."

"Anne's brother?"

"Uh . . . yeah. That Ed." Bella notices that Martha doesn't mention he's younger than Bella.

"Well, I don't reckon I should be surprised. You talk about him a lot. I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him when I was up there."

"Would you like me to email you a picture?"

"Yes. Yes, I would." A pause. "How serious is this, honey?"

"I don't know." She draws figure eights on her desk blotter. Of course she knows, but she wants to ease Martha into it.

She hears a chuckle through the phone. "Probably a little more serious than you're admitting. Did he get you something for Valentine's?"

"Oh, yes. Roses."

"You enjoy it while it lasts. They usually remember for a while, but it's not what they get you that tells you they love you."

"I know. He has a good heart."

"If he's anything like Anne, he probably does."

They talk about other things then. Bella sends her a picture of Edward later. She makes sure it's one taken at the shelter, together with Esme. Fortunately, they look enough alike that they can pass for siblings. Martha sends back that he's a good-looking man and she wants to meet him soon. Bella tells her mother not long after -- but not Charlie yet. Martha and Renee do talk sometimes -- if less as time has passed -- but neither talks much to Charlie.

Irene calls her in late February. "We're coming out -- me and the kids -- for their spring break. Second week of April. Is that okay? Jake has to work, unfortunately, so it'll just be us."

"Of course," Bella says, glad Irene actually gave her prior notice and didn't just show up on her doorstep. "I haven't seen y'all in too long."

"Well, we have a wedding present -- a little belated, but hey. Indian time."

Bella laughs. Jake and Irene are the only ones besides the Cullens who know she and Edward are actually married. "If it's April," she says, "we may have a house by then, but it won't be fit for habitation. Edward found this nice little farmhouse that Esme's going to gut and redo. They're even installing a pool with a lift so I can swim."

"Wow. The pool won't be ready, would it? The kids'd love that. No swimming up here in April, for sure."

"No, unfortunately. But the national forest is right next door. If it's warm enough, they can go tubing on the river. We can drive up to Cherokee too, if you want."

Irene laughs. "I can go see what show our Eastern cousins are putting on for the tourists?"

Later that same evening, Alice arrives in Rose's kitchen while Bella cooks dinner. Edward is down in Atlanta and Rose is out, but Emmett is upstairs. Hearing Alice, he comes down, curious. Alice's face is sober.

"What is it?" Bella asks. She's been making a spring rice pilaf with peas, yellow pepper and shrimp -- something healthy she can store in Tupperware to take in for lunch. She wants to lose a little weight, although Edward tells her he doesn't care. She cares. She doesn't like the pinch-an-inch on her waist and being a newlywed again gives her inspiration to stick to a diet.

Alice sits down at the eat-in table. Emmett, sensing her seriousness, sits across from her. Bella can't leave the stove, but looks over her shoulder. "The vision is back," Alice says without preamble. "You made me promise to tell you."

Bella drops the wooden spoon. Olive oil splatters. Emmett is there in an instant, grabbing it. "Go over to the table. I'll finish this."

"Thanks," she says absently and rolls over to face Alice. "The vision where I die?"

"Well, in _some_ versions you die. In more, you -- you change, Bella. I see you as a Newborn."

"It's coming soon?"

"I don't know. I don't even know why the visions returned. I thought they were gone."

"It's the same?"

"Yes, more or less. You outside, crawling, wounded. Charlie at your funeral. You with blood-red eyes."

"That's all?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. It's even less than before." Alice pulls at her short hair as Emmett, in the background, separates the pilaf into four Tupperware serving bowls.

"Can I walk?" Bella blurts.

"What?" Alice looks up.

"If you see me changed, can I walk?"

Alice shakes her head. "I haven't seen that far. I'm sorry." Her face is tense and unhappy, and she blurts, "I don't know why I can't see anything else! I don't know when this might happen, nor even why . . . ! It's just glimpses! This is why I didn't want to tell you before."

Bella leans over to grip her hands. "Thank you for telling me this time. Even my knowing might change the outcome."

"If Bella's changed, is it another vampire?" Emmett asks.

"I don't know," Alice replies.

"The Volturi, maybe? If they find out she knows our secret?"

"I don't know, Emmett!" Alice sounds frustrated.

"I can't think of what else it would be that would require Bella to change."

"It could be lots of things -- that's the problem. If it were the Volturi, why would she be crawling outside?"

"Can you get a time of the year, Alice?" Bella asks.

Alice shakes her head. "The leaves are out? I can't say more than that I see green grass and some leaves."

"Am I the age I am now?"

"I think so, although again, it's hard to be certain. You aren't a lot older anyway."

"Do you see a way around it?"

Her features crumple. "No yet. But I'm looking. It may have to get closer to the time, whenever that is. It's so indistinct, I think it must still be some ways off."

Bella nods. She feels numb and there's a sick ball in the pit of her stomach. "Thank you for telling me this time."

"I promised," is all Alice replies.

Bella calls her father that evening just to hear his voice. It's been a long time. She tells him about "Ed," her boyfriend. He sounds interested, but doesn't make too much of it.

"A doctor, huh?"

"Yeah."

"And he's younger than you?"

"A little. Not like Mom and Phil. Just a few years." She's not sure why she feels a need to say that, but she doesn't want him to compare her to Renee.

"So when do I get to meet him?"

"I don't know. Sometime. It's not that serious. We just go out sometimes. He's fun, and nice, and we see each other at the shelter."

"Huh. Well. Fun is good. And a doctor . . . not bad, Bells."

She can't help smiling to herself. Trust her father to think about the practical. One of his issues with Mark had been Mark's desire to teach at seminary -- years of school and no guarantee of a job later. Charlie wants to know that his baby girl will be provided for. His measure of love has always been the mundane. He _does_ things. He doesn't spout flowery words. "He took me to a very nice dinner on Valentine's," she says now, knowing Charlie will like that.

"You've been seeing this guy since Valentine's?"

Ooops. "That's only a couple weeks, Dad. I told you -- it's not that serious. But I thought . . . well, I thought you might want to know about him."

"Yeah. Uh, thanks, Bells. You'll let me know if, uh, things get more serious?"

"Of course." She's glad he doesn't ask her to email a picture like she'd offered Martha.

They talk about other things for a while but right before he hangs up, he says, "Bella, I'm real glad you found somebody to spend some time with. But you be careful with guys named Ed."

This startles her. She'd thought that he'd mostly forgotten about Edward. "That was a long time ago," she says. "Ed's different. He respects me, and listens to me." Which isn't a lie. He is different now.

"Okay. You be sure he does. Any man better respect you or I'll show him the business end of my revolver."

Bella can't help but laugh. "Dad! I'm a big girl now."

"I know. But you'll always be my baby girl no matter how big you get."

She can't help smiling. "I love you, Daddy."

"Love you, too, Bells."

When she hangs up, there's a lump in her throat. If what Alice saw is true, how can she leave her dad? Who'll take care of him? He's all alone in the world.

Edward comes home very late when his shift is over at 11. She's still awake when he slips into their bedroom. "Honey, I'm home," he says. There's a smile in his voice and she can hear the rustle of cloth as he undresses for bed. He might not sleep, but he still shares her bed until she falls asleep, and is often still there when she wakes, reading a book by whatever light comes through the sliding glass door and windows.

She wishes she felt as cheerful as he sounds. "Alice came by tonight," she tells him softly. "The vision is back."

In an instant, Edward is beside her, his arm tightening around her. "Fuck," he mutters. The vulgarity of the term is a measure of his upset.

"You're not going to smother me, are you?"

He doesn't reply immediately. "I'll try not to."

She rests her chin on his shoulder. "I'm scared too," she admits.

His arms tighten around her. "I'll protect you."

"No, you'll try to protect me. Don't make an impossible promise, Edward. I'm a big girl. I understand the truth."

"Maybe I'm saying it for me," he whispers. She understands then, and kisses his cheek. "You'll let me?" he asks. "You won't go off and do something stupid, will you?"

Her arms tighten around him. "I'm not inclined to do stupid things anymore. At least not intentionally. Regular life is dangerous enough."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to Minisinoo for help in this part and the next with Irene and Jake; she's my guru for all things Native American, but don't blame her for my mistakes and misunderstandings.

Expect the next part late Saturday night/early Sunday morning (depending on your time zone).


	55. Chapter 55

**Part Summary:** Irene comes for vacation. She and Bella talk about a lot of things.

* * *

"You know we love you," Rose tells Bella the morning after Irene and the kids arrive. "We're letting _werewolves_ stay here."

Bella laughs. "They're not werewolves, Rose. That's Jake."

"Yeah, well, his smell is on them."

"You'll live."

"So to speak." Rose picks up her briefcase to head out. She has an early court date, and Edward's shift won't be over until seven that evening. Bella is taking the day off to spend with Irene. They have a lot of catching up to do.

With temps only in the 60s, it's not warm enough for tubing -- much to the disappointment of the girls -- but it's still warmer than Idaho, and excited at the prospect of a whole week in a new place, they're up at the crack of dawn, dragging Irene (and Bella) out of bed. Bella decides they should drive to Cherokee. It's a two-hour trip up 23 through the national parks, and in the van, the kids can play in the back, giving Bella and Irene a chance to visit. On the way, they mostly chat about people they both know from Forks, even if Irene and Jake no longer live there. Ben and Angela have a second child on the way, Sam and Emily have a veritable army of kids, and the tribe has made enough off their casino to add two day-yachts, one for fishing and the second to take tourists out to see the whales. That's mostly Leah's doing. She's proved to be very good at investing the tribe's money from the casino and resort. Every Quileute child will have a free ride to college as long as they choose a state university in Washington, or at least partial tuition to any other school.

"That's a load off our minds," Irene confesses. "The kids are enrolled Quileute, although they could be Skokomish. The Quileute are smaller, so we decided to let them claim the numbers. But it also means we don't have to come up with tuition for the whole brood." She smirks. "It seems Wolf genes are fertile." She pats her abdomen.

Bella glances over, and her jaw drops. "No! Another?"

Irene shrugs. "Little Leah's two now. We figured we could manage a fourth. Jake's still hoping for a boy and I think maybe this one will be. I'm carrying low this time."

Irene is big enough that Bella had assumed she was just gaining weight. But another baby? Jake can barely support the three they have, and Irene can't make enough part time to justify the cost of daycare. "You know all those stories about being able to tell the gender from how you carry are old wives tales?" Bella cautions. "How far along are you?"

"I'm at eighteen weeks and he just started moving. He's more vigorous than the other three. And I know the stories aren't foolproof, but I just . . . have a feeling. It's a boy." Bella hopes so. Jake adores all three of his daughters, but she knows he wants a son too. "This is the last one," Irene says. "Even if it's not a boy, I'm getting my tubes tied this time!"

"I don't see how you do it," Bella confesses. "Four would drive me crazy. _One_ full time would drive me crazy."

"After the second, they sort of entertain themselves." Irene's expression is speculative. "And I assumed that, with Edward, having even one wouldn't be an option."

"Well not fathered by him, but there's adoption, artificial insemination . . . we discussed it. I'm just not sure I want any."

"That's probably wise." Irene's voice is careful. "Kids get hurt a lot -- they bleed."

"He works in a hospital, Irene."

She just shrugs. "He's not the only blood-drinker who'd be around them."

That's a good point. "I'm not really interested anyway." She shoots Irene a grin. "I'll just spoil yours. You and Jake had an extra pair for us anyway."

Irene chuckles and they talk of other things, then spend the rest of the day at a museum and a re-creation of a Cherokee village. Irene is interested in learning about a very different people from her own. It's sunset before they're back in the car and headed home, the kids worn out from a busy day. The younger two sleep while Jenny reads a book. Harry Potter. Bella grins. She'd read those when she'd been Jenny's age, but Jenny actually lives in a magical world where her adopted aunt is married to a vampire and her daddy turns into a giant wolf at will. Wizards must seem passé to her.

Seeing that her daughter is absorbed, Irene says in a low voice, "I'm assuming you and Edward have talked about the future? Beyond just having kids or not?"

"Some," Bella says, suspecting she knows where this is going but letting Irene get there in her own time.

"And?"

"And-and?"

"What next then? You won't be able to stay here too long."

"We're taking it one step at a time," Bella says. "I've got to finish the dissertation and he's got three more years of residency, then we'll be at their family's limit in one place anyway. We'll move. We're not sure yet where."

"Are you going to make your marriage public eventually?"

Bella frowns. "I don't know. I doubt it. Charlie," she explains.

"He'd recognize them?"

"Almost certainly."

"Why not just tell him the truth, Bella?"

"Has Billy told him the truth?"

"Billy can't. Tribal restriction. You know that."

"Vampires have something similar. There's really only one vampire 'law,' as I understand it -- keep their existence a secret from humans -- or else. There's even a vampire coven that enforces it, sort of like a combination police force and royal family. The Volturi."

"Well, what about you? You know!"

"And if they found out I knew, I'd be forced to become one of them -- or be killed." Irene sucks in breath. "It's enough of a gamble as it is. The Cullens are banking on a combination of being half a world away -- the Volturi live in Italy -- and them being lackadaisical about enforcing their own law. Apparently, they only bother if there's a real disturbance. They don't send out spies or anything."

"Well, that's good at least," Irene says.

"But the more people who know the truth, the trickier it gets to hide it."

"To a point." Irene shrugs. "Sometimes not enough people knowing can cause the same problem when they get curious. Charlie's a cop. I think he could keep his mouth shut. Your mom . . . well . . . " Bella rolls her eyes and Irene grins. "But Charlie could. Jake says Billy wanted to tell him before -- back when all the shit hit the fan -- but the Council forbade it."

Bella is silent a moment, then concludes, "I'll think about it. It's not just my own decision."

Irene says nothing else. Several miles pass of the dense pine and deciduous forests of Chattahoochee National Park. Approaching middle April, new leaf growth is out and the flowering trees are starting. White and pink dogwood show up bright in places. They can hear Jenny quietly turning pages in the back. Bella wonders if she's listening in or ignoring this 'adult talk.' The radio is set to a country station that's playing old songs. The current one is Martina McBride's "Independence Day" about a battered wife who sends her daughter off to the local fair, then blows up her house with herself -- and her abusive husband -- inside. Bella thinks of Hannah and their other clients, glad they've got a better option.

"What would you decide if these other vampires do find out you know?" Irene asks.

Bella blinks. "I . . . uh, I don't think they will."

"But they might," Irene presses. Turning her head, she looks at Bella. "Are you going to become like them? A Cold One? A blood-drinker?"

Bella frowns. Irene is better than Jake but the prejudice is still there. "Vegetarians think we're horrible for eating a hamburger, you know. The Cullens don't eat people. They eat animals -- just like we do."

Irene shrugs and her face wears a frown. "It's different, Bella; they have these . . . instincts. You learn that living with someone who's not fully human. Jake is . . . different. So is your Edward."

Bella thinks about Carlisle's reaction to her original Christmas present idea for Edward. She hadn't believed it would be a big deal. Hadn't he drunk her blood back in Arizona to clear out James's venom and been able to stop? He's so good now he can even work in a hospital like Carlisle. Yet Carlisle had still advised against even offering him her blood. Too much temptation. He might lose his cool, and his control. Nonetheless . . .

"It's about choices, Irene. They choose not to hurt us. If they mess up . . . well, the gentlest person can be guilty of accidental manslaughter. I could fall asleep at the wheel, swerve off the highway and kill one of you in an accident. A moment's lapse. I'd feel horrible. So would they if they hurt somebody. They have a conscience no less than we do. Even Jasper . . . he's killed hundreds, maybe thousands, but it made him so depressed he couldn't stand it anymore and walked away. I know he still struggles with guilt more than fifty years later. I doubt he'll ever entirely get over it."

"Nor should he," Irene replies. "If he does, he'll be tempted to go back."

It's a good point, but Bella decides not to tell Irene about any of the others. "They give back," she says instead. "Carlisle as a doctor, and now Edward. The rest with the shelter. Even before that, they gave quietly. They have resources and try to share them without breaking the vampire law."

"'He to whom much is given, of him shall much be required.' Jesus said that."

Bella resists blinking. She forgets sometimes that Irene both keeps her own traditions and goes to church. "Yes, exactly. Carlisle lives by that maxim, I think."

Pulling her long hair into a ponytail, Irene pins it up on her head. "So -- you never answered my question. Would you change?"

"Once, I'd have said no," Bella admits. "Just categorically no. Then Edward happened. It got complicated."

She pauses. Irene nods. "Go on."

"I'm not ready to give him up. And now . . . well . . . " She trails off, then screws up her courage and tells Irene about Alice's vision. When she's finished, she concludes, "Looking at death changes your attitudes and priorities, but I guess that's a cliché, isn't it? It's easy to say you wouldn't want to change when dying is a long way off. Even when I thought the venom could heal my spine, I didn't want to change. But now I feel different, and Edward thinks he could do something that might heal me. But really, I'm just . . . I'm not ready to leave him."

Irene has listened to all this with quiet patience. "My aunt died of ovarian cancer," she says. "It was some years back. She was my mother's baby sister and had a seven- and a two-year-old at the time. They didn't have insurance besides reservation services. Dying does change you. I remember how scared she was, but not scared for herself. She didn't want to leave her sons or husband." She looks over at Bella. It's completely dark out now and her face appears ghostly in the blue dashboard lights. "I think she might have done about anything to stay alive for them."

Bella feels _relieved_. She'd wondered if she were somehow wishy-washy, unable to hold onto her convictions, but Irene's words have put it in perspective for her. "If I did live to a normal old age," Bella says now, "I'd be okay with dying. I like being human. Edward likes me human. But it's different if it's _tomorrow_."

"I'd think it would be," Irene agrees, then asks, "Will Edward be okay with all this when you're closer to fifty than thirty? When you look like his mother, not his wife?"

It's a blunt question but, Bella supposes, a fair one. She's wondered the same thing. "He tells me it won't matter, and I have to trust him to know his own mind. He only looks in his late teens." Her lips curl up in amusement. "_Real_ teenagers drive him crazy. He's more like some old man set in his ways."

"Well, teenagers drive us _all_ crazy," Irene says, smirking.

"Other people notice, too -- instinctively maybe. When we went to this party at the house of one of his supervisors, the full physicians talked to him like a colleague, not a student. It made his fellow residents jealous." Bella recalls Chip Clayton and his angry eyes following Edward all evening. She hopes he won't be back next year because there's some sort of bad blood between those two and Edward won't tell her why. It's not a normal rivalry. "When I was younger," she goes on, "I worried about there being a big difference in our appearances, but back then, I thought thirty was middle-aged, so what did I know?"

That makes Irene laugh. "Funny, how 'old' keeps getting pushed back the older we get?"

"Exactly. I feel like I'm barely getting started and I'll be thirty year after next."

Irene's head tilts thoughtfully. "Can you imagine looking seventeen forever? God, that would suck. Nobody would ever take you seriously."

"At least Edward can pull off low twenties -- but not much beyond. Carlisle was turned at twenty-three so he's more versatile. He can pass for early thirties, if barely. Esme was twenty-six, so she can manage mid-thirties."

"I think our age is about right," Irene says. "If I had to pick an age to stop aging at, I'd pick late twenties to early thirties. It's not _too_ young, but not too old."

Bella nods, recognizing this as Irene's backhanded way of saying she'd understand if Bella did choose to change. "As Alice keeps reminding me however, her visions aren't set in stone. This one's very vague and she can't see what happens, not really, which she thinks means it's still too early and likely to change."

Irene holds up her left hand, showing her fingers crossed.

On the way back to Helen, Bella drops by the new Krogers outside Sautee to avoid the higher prices at the family grocery in Helen itself. This is where they shop for the shelter. They need milk at the house as Bella forgot to get it before Irene arrived, and three kids go through a lot of milk. "It'll just take a few minutes," Bella says. "You can stay here with the girls. They're sleeping."

"I can go. You stay."

"No, it's fine," Bella says. She knows Irene is trying to be thoughtful, but Bella likes to do these things for herself. More to the point, she doesn't want Irene spending her own money. She gets out by the lift and leaves the van running so Irene has the radio.

The store will be closing soon and Bella hurries through before they lock the front doors for the night. The stock boys are already out in the aisles with their boxes. It takes Bella three different tries before she finds an aisle she can get down to the dairy section at the rear. She doesn't need much so she just picks up a little basket instead of messing with one of their motorized carts. In the dairy, she grabs a gallon of milk and several yogurts. She gets hotdogs and buns too. That's always safe with kids.

Abruptly two strong hands grab her chair back and shove it, and her, towards the swinging doors into the stock room right beside the sour cream and cottage cheese case. The basket falls off her lap so that yogurt cups roll. She starts to yelp, but there's a hand over her mouth. "Don't say a word," hisses a male voice, "or I'll put this box opener right in your neck, bitch."

She feels the sharp edge of a razor on her skin as the doors swing closed behind them. But Bella knows better than to submit passively. She might have been startled there for a minute, but she's a cop's daughter. If she doesn't yell and fight back now, it'll be too late. Her mouth opens.

Something comes down hard on the side of her head. It's the last thing she knows.

* * *

**A/N:** **Ready for the roller coaster? Strap in. Here we go .... Another part will be posted Monday; it's short, so I'll post another on Tuesday, then give myself a day's break, and post two more on subsequent days.**

**I'm also going to say that, here at the end as I'm trying to get these parts ready in rapid succession, I'll reply to all reviews with a question or extensive comment or if there's something I've just got to say. But for brief reviews of "I liked it!" or similar -- which are more than welcome, mind! -- please accept my simple thanks in advance. I suspect most of you would rather have the next chapter than a reply. :-)**

Irene's quote is from _Luke_ 12:48, the parable of the faithful servant.

Martina McBride (who I think is totally awesome) performs a number of songs that have a social conscience. The one in question, "Independence Day," comes from her 1996 album _The Way That I Am_. If you've never seen it (even if you're not a fan of country) go and look it up on YouTube. I'd give you a link, but FF-net rips all URLs/links out of chapters, PMs, reviews and replies. (Please don't forget that, btw. Sometimes people send me a review or note with a URL and it just *disappears*, so I don't even know what's being referenced.)

There's a little story to this song.

Originally, it didn't make it into the top 10 because a number of radio stations refused to air it, and either Faith Hill or Reba McEntyre (reports differ) was offered it first, but turned it down. It was controversial. Ironically, it's gone on to become one of McBride's signature songs and is considered in the top 50 country songs of all time (#50, in fact). McBride has become very active with raising awareness about domestic violence. Quite a stir was caused when Sarah Palin used the song during her campaign, as songwriter Gretchen Peters objected strenuously given Palin's stance on no abortion even in cases of rape and incest. Yet as royalties were paid, she had no control over it's use. Therefore, any royalties she got, she donated to Planned Parenthood in Palin's name. A lot of people seem to hear it and pay attention only to the chorus, missing what the song is actually about. It's not a generic patriotic song.

A couple of readers asked about other songs by Martina like that one. I'd also point you to "A Broken Wing," "Concrete Angel," "When God-Fearin' Women Get the Blues," and "Love's the Only House."


	56. Chapter 56

**Part Summary:** Bella has disappeared and now the shit hits the fan.

* * *

"Why in hell did she call the _police_?" Edward bellows while pacing at twice a normal human rate. "Shouldn't they insist on a 24-hour delay anyway before filing a missing persons? Bella's an adult! That would give us time to find her first."

"There's enough circumstantial evidence to assume foul play," Jasper explains.

Alice rubs her temples and lets Jasper try to calm down Edward before they head to the sheriff's office. Possible futures are spinning in her head like a hundred pinwheels. It makes her dizzy and sick. With one choice -- a choice Alice couldn't see because Irene Black is apparently carrying a werewolf fetus -- their family might be exposed and consequently destroyed by the Volturi. They can't let this case go national. Yet Alice has seen that very possibility over and over thanks to Charlie Swan . . . unless the family leaves Helen _right now_.

Yet leaving will result in Bella's death. Alice has seen that, too, and she can't let Bella die. Not to mention she may as well try to move Black Mountain as move Edward before Bella is found. She wishes he couldn't read her mind so clearly. She's too upset, and too dizzy from the visions, to deceive him. They both know Bella's father is on the way to catch a flight to Georgia. The local police notified him right after Irene Black notified them. She'd called from the Krogers when she realized Bella was missing: first the police, then Jake, then Edward, then Rose.

If only she'd called even Jake first.

"She did what was logical for a human, Edward," Jasper says now. "When you have an emergency, you call 911."

"This is a disaster!" Edward replies, pinching his nose. "Charlie will recognize us. You all need to leave now and institute our crisis contingency. I'll find Bella and follow with her."

"Not yet," Alice pleads. "We've invested too much here to run at the drop of a hat. The women at the shelter _need_ us. It'll all collapse if we go now -- and you need our help to find Bella. There may still be a way out of this."

"I can see what you see, Alice! Charlie goes ballistic as soon as he realizes I'm involved and won't listen to a word we say! The police get suspicious and start investigating us. The story goes national. The Volturi hear and come to clean up. We _all_ die. Now, I need to get out there and find Bella before the trail gets cold. Call Carlisle and start the move."

"Carlisle's with Emmett already searching," Jasper replies. "And you're flying off the handle. I'm not convinced there's no way to get through to Charlie if we can reach him before he makes it to the sheriff's office. Alice will know when his plane sits down in Atlanta and we'll intercept him."

"He's not going to listen, Jasper. Alice can see it."

"Maybe," Alice corrects.

"I'm not giving up until we've tried," Jasper says. "I'm from Texas. Remember the Alamo. Victory or death."

Despite himself, Edward snorts. "The Alamo was a stupid last stand."

"Whatever, Yankee," Jasper replies, grinning. "I don't believe this is as hopeless as you do, and Alice has a point. If we leave now, just disappear, that shelter won't last a week and those women'll be right back where they started. So right now, I'm taking you down to the station where you're going to act like a proper worried boyfriend, then I'll join Em and Carlisle. We'll find her. Emmett thinks he already knows who took her."

Edward's head jerks up. "Who?"

"Brady Jones. Em got his scent when the kid attacked them at Alice's shop, remember? Well, his scent is all over the store. He works there. They hired him two weeks ago as a stock boy."

"He was at work tonight?"

"Actually, he wasn't. That's the problem." Jasper rubs his chin, frowning. "He wasn't on the schedule but Emmett can still smell him all around the area he also smells Bella; he just can't be sure how recent Brady's scent is. He called me ten minutes ago. He and Carlisle tracked the scent to the back lot where he thinks Brady may have loaded Bella into a vehicle, then left with her. Unfortunately they have to work around the police who are still on the scene investigating, so it makes things difficult. If they're spotted, they'll have no end of trouble. They want me down there because I'm better at tracking."

"Esme's with Irene," Alice says, seeing it unfold as she relates it. "She's already suggested to the police that they question Brady, and they will, but they'll find him at home. His mother will say he was there all evening, but I can't see more -- whether or not he actually was. He's not close enough to me. Whatever the case, his whereabouts will be accounted for unless we can find other evidence to suggest he wasn't home. The problem is, Edward's whereabouts _aren't_ accounted for."

"_What?_" Edward practically shouts.

"You were in your car, alone, driving home. No one was with you. She disappeared just before ten, and you left Atlanta a little after seven. You'd have had plenty of time to get back to the area by then."

"I went home!" Edward says.

"We know that. But nobody was at the house. Rose was out. Emmett was out."

"Why on earth would they think _I_ had anything to do with it?"

Alice's eyes refocus and she looks at her brother sadly. "Edward, in most cases of missing women, their husbands or boyfriends killed them."

"They don't know I'm her husband."

"You'll have to tell them. They will find out -- it's legal and in the public record -- and if you don't admit it up front, it'll look bad. Tell them the two of you were waiting a little longer before announcing it because she was a widow." Alice traces possibilities. "Yes -- that should do. They might not approve, but they won't be too suspicious."

"But Charlie -- "

"Like Jasper said, we'll intercept Charlie before he gets there, and Renee too. And -- " Suddenly a new vision enters her mind and she smiles. She knows the way out of the trap now. "Martha. We need Martha. Charlie will listen to her."

She hops up and dashes for her purse where she left her cell phone. Martha gave her the parsonage number last October. Edward has her around the waist before she reaches the phone, though. "Let me go!" she yells.

"You'll compound the problem!"

"No, I won't!"

Alice feels Edward jerk as Jasper reaches them and peels her free from Edward's grip. "Trust her," Jasper tells him. It's a low growl of warning.

Edward spins away, tearing at his hair again. "Get him out of here," Alice whispers and Jasper nods.

"Come on," he tells Edward, gripping him by the shoulder and propelling him towards the door. "Time to be the frantic husband. That, _I_ can predict you won't have to fake."

Before Alice dials, she shouts after them. "Rose will be there by the time you are! Be sure nobody questions you without her present!"

Turning back to her phone, Alice takes a breath and closes her eyes, saying a little prayer that this really will be the answer. She dials the parsonage even while she's opening the Yellow Pages to airlines. If she's lucky and things go like she foresees, Martha will arrive here before Charlie and Alice can explain everything. It's more than six hours in the air from the west coast, assuming Charlie even gets a direct flight, but only about one from Jacksonville.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, I realize this is a very short part. I'll be posting another in less than 24 hours, but I decided to keep the pattern of one point of view per part.


	57. Chapter 57

**Part Summary:** Angry Rose is very, very scary. Also, just to be entirely clear, there _is_ a White County Sheriff's Office as well as a Helen Police Department, but obviously, this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect any real organization much less actual officers.

* * *

Rose is furious. She'd like to tear that stupid wolf girl apart. She doesn't have Alice's Sight, but she doesn't need it to see how disastrously this could go. They can't be investigated by the police. It was bad enough with the shop incident. Rose is good, but too many things won't add up if anyone does a thorough background check of their family.

At least the nudnik had shown the good sense to call her dog of a husband too and he's on the way. If he's here, maybe he can keep Charlie Swan from blowing their cover. They can't even resort to make-up because the _rest_ of the town knows them as younger than Charlie Swan would expect. Not to mention they're pretending to a different family arrangement.

She storms into the county sheriff's office where Esme sits with Irene and her children in blue plastic bucket seats in a utilitarian visitor reception area. Irene looks terrified and Esme stands, putting herself between Rose and the girl. "Rosalie," Esme warns.

"Let me by," Rose bites out.

"Not here," Esme says in a voice too low for any human to hear. "Even if nobody's watching us, there are cameras."

"Does she know what she's done?" Rose asks in the same soft voice, her back to the camera she knows is concealed in the reflecting ceiling casing.

"She knows. She was scared and didn't think, so of course she called 911. She hasn't been doing this for years like us."

Rose purses her lips but looks past Esme at Irene whose dark eyes are wide, her face so pale she looks almost white. Her girls sit on either side of her, clinging to her, the toddler on her lap, and Rose feels the rage wash right out of her. She's annoyed with Irene, yes, but the person she needs to be _angry_ at is whoever took Bella.

Turning to the front window, she rings a bell and a woman comes to the glass. "I'd like an interview room, please, to talk to Mrs. Black." The clerk frowns and Rose sighs. "You know me, Diane."

"Of course, Ms. Hale, but can't you talk to her out there? She's not being held on any charge -- "

"I know that, but I represent the family of the missing woman, Isabella Jackson, and I need to be briefed. Her husband will be arriving soon, so please show him in to where we are."

"Mr. Black?"

"No, Isabella Jackson's husband -- Dr. Edward Masen."

"She's married? We had no record of that -- "

Rose holds up the marriage certificate she's brought with her. "They were married quietly in December. He volunteers at the shelter, but as Ms. Jackson is a widow, they feared some of her family might not think a year in mourning long enough." Alice had told her on the phone to use that excuse; it would play best.

The poor window clerk is looking a bit overwhelmed, but that's how Rose likes it. Less time for people to think of ways to put her off. "Uh, I guess, well, um, you can have the conference room since nobody's in there . . ."

"I know where it is." Rose waves Esme, Irene and the kids after her as she pushes through the door, pausing to let the duty officer run a cursory check -- the advantage of being known in a small-town station house or a rural county sheriff's office is a distinct lack of formal procedure. The rest submit to the same check, then Rose leads them into a little conference room across from the sheriff's office.

Closing the door behind them, she turns her back to the camera in the corner and writes on a piece of paper she has ready, _Cameras. Watch what you say._ She flashes it at Irene, who nods. Too bad the human can't hear vampire speech. Rose sits down and crushes the paper in her hands. "Now, tell me everything."

Irene nods and starts to speak but the door opens. Rose knows even without looking that it's Edward and Jasper. Aside from their scent, a calm sweeps over the room -- which annoys Rose. She needs her anger to help her think, but she throws as much as she can into bullet points for Edward to read out of her head. He comes over to the table to sit down, then leans over and puts his head down on his arms. He's not pretending. Rose suspects Jasper is barely holding him together. "Okay," Rose tells Irene. "Talk to us."

"On the way back from Cherokee, Bella stopped at the grocery. She needed milk and yogurt for the girls. I offered to go in because, well, you know -- it'd be easier. The girls were asleep and we didn't want to wake them just for that. Bella insisted on going. She's . . . she doesn't like to be told she can't do things. She never has."

"It's important to her to have independence," Edward says and raises his head. If he could cry, Rose thinks he would be. His looks desolate.

"Anyway," Irene continues, "I stayed in the car. I know it takes her longer so I didn't really make much of the delay at first, but even Bella doesn't need half an hour to buy milk and yogurt, so I started wondering what was going on and got the girls up to go in. We even had to get somebody to open the door for us because they'd locked up for the night. I thought maybe she'd just run into somebody she knew, but she wasn't anywhere in there. They were all looking for her, the employees, because the store was closing. The deli person was the last to see her, but she'd been shutting down the cases and cleaning up, so she wasn't out front. There was an empty basket and spilled food in the dairy section but no other sign."

"There are cameras in stores," Edward says.

"In the front only, apparently. Or at least not in that section. We decided we'd better call the police. Then I called Jake, you, and Rose."

Rose rubs her forehead although she can't really get a headache. At least this explains a little better why and how the police had gotten involved. Irene couldn't very well be looking for somebody who'd apparently disappeared into thin air and _not_ call the police.

The door to the room opens as a deputy sticks her head in. "I understand the missing woman's, ah, husband is here? Edward Masen?"

Edward raises his hand. "That's me."

The deputy enters carrying a clipboard. "I need you to fill out this paperwork, please, then I need to ask some additional questions. Anything could matter."

"We already know who did this!" Edward snapped. "Brady Jones!"

"We've been made aware of that possibility, Mr., ah, Dr. Masen. Officers are already on the way to investigate. But at this point, we need to consider everything."

Edward takes the clipboard and starts writing. The deputy watches, then asks, casually, "Where were you this evening, Dr. Masen?"

"Driving back from my shift at The Veterans' Hospital in Atlanta. I was on duty until seven."

"Do you car pool with anyone?"

"No. Why would I? Nobody else in Helen works in Atlanta." Edward is concentrating on the sheets.

_Careful!_ Rose advises in her mind and sees him shoot her a look.

Under his breath, too low for anyone but Esme and Jasper to hear, he says, "Alice warned me."

"Where were you when Mrs. Black called you?"

"At home," Edward says. "Waiting for my wife and Irene to get back."

"Bella called him from the car to tell him she was going by the store," Irene says, meaning to be helpful.

"So you knew she was stopping there?"

Edward puts down the pen and clipboard. "Of course I did. She didn't want me to worry. She called me when they stopped" -- which is meant to clarify that he wouldn't have had time to drive from their house in Helen to Sautee in the time between Bella's call and her probable abduction.

"May we see your cell phone?"

Annoyed, Edward sighs but hands it over. There wouldn't be anything on it incriminating, Rose hopes. But if he appears to cooperate without hesitation, it may allay the deputy's concerns, and apparently works. She checks the calls received, closes the phone and hands it back to him. No doubt Edward had been able to read her mind to know how best to pacify her. It's far from a watertight alibi, but it makes it unlikely that they'll immediately assume him guilty -- yet after her conversation with Alice in the car on the way here, Rose is far from appeased.

Edward is finished with the paperwork and hands back the clipboard. Flipping to an empty sheet, the deputy begins questioning him and Rose about the current shelter residents so they can cross-check them with their own records. Then she asks Edward about Bella's other friends, contacts, family members. It's a widely flung dragnet of information, but the fact Bella didn't have a large social circle beyond the shelter and their family will, Rose knows, make the police inclined to think her disappearance related to one of those things.

When Edward's told her all he can think of, he goes on the offense. "Look -- I know the statistics. Twenty-four hours. If you can't find her in that time, her chances go down."

"That's mostly related to child kidnaping, Dr. Masen."

"Nonetheless -- what are you doing right now?"

She frowns but must have decided he's no fool. "We're questioning all the store employees and doing background checks. We've dusted for fingerprints in the dairy section where your wife was last seen. It would appear she was taken out through the back. Her father is on his way here from Washington State -- I assume you knew that?" She's testing him, Rose can tell. Edward just nods shortly once. "We know he's a police chief there, so he may have some additional insight to give, even though he doesn't reside in this area -- "

"Or he'll get in the way," Edward points out.

"Do you and Chief Swan not get along?"

The deputy is sharp, but no match for Edward's mind-reading. He smiles and redirects her without answering the question. "I do realize," he says, "that I'm considered a suspect as a matter of course. The bulk of abductions involving adult women are done by a husband or boyfriend. But in this case, I'm not the husband you're looking for. We both know Brady Jones was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon back in December when he tried to attack his wife and several shelter workers -- one of whom was _my_ wife. He's had several restraining orders taken out against him, including one involving Bella. Why isn't he in here being questioned?"

Rose is sure Edward wants a crack at reading Brady's mind.

"I assure you, Dr. Masen, several deputies are already on the way to interview Mr. Jones but unless there's evidence to connect him to this case, he remains only a person of interest."

Rose has to give it to the deputy -- she's scrupulous. She won't let Edward prick her into any unconsidered statements, and as the victim of Edward's verbal assaults in the past, Rose knows just how good at that he is. He's trapped now, unable to say more without revealing that he knows too much -- such as the fact Brady actually works for that Krogers. Suspecting Brady is natural, but knowing things he shouldn't could possibly make Edward look guilty of a set-up.

"Would you like to stay here at the station for a while?" the deputy asks.

"Absolutely," Edward replies. It's a wise response. Rose knows his willingness to stick around will make him look less in a hurry to be somewhere else doing dastardly deeds. She's fairly sure the police will cross him off their list of "real" suspects relatively early -- as long as Charlie Swan can be reached in time to prevent him from saying anything incriminating. The police aren't fools; they'll be naturally suspicious -- and vampires tend to make people nervous as a matter of course -- but they're also used to dealing with criminals. In the absence of anything to tip them off, Edward won't give the right vibes because he's not actually guilty.

"Could we go home?" Esme asks now, gently, gesturing to Irene's kids. "They're exhausted."

"Yes, of course," the deputy says. "We've got everything from Mrs. Black for now. We may call again in the morning."

"Certainly," Esme replies as she picks up one of the little girls and leaves Irene to carry the baby. The oldest follows. Rose glances at Jasper, who's still there -- and is, she's sure, responsible for subtly keeping things civil. She wonders if it would be wiser for him to stay, but Edward has turned to wave him out with the women.

"Go back to Alice," he says aloud, but Rose knows he's telling Jasper to go join Emmett and Carlisle in their hunt.

"Would you like some coffee?" the deputy asks Edward, but he shakes his head.

"I don't want anything right now," he says.

"Okay."

"I want to know when they bring in Brady Jones."

"Dr. Masen, again -- Mr. Jones will only be brought in if there's reason."

"There's reason."

"Maybe," the woman allows as she goes out, closing the door again.

It's just the two of them now, and this isn't a situation in which Rose ever expected to find herself: alone with Edward at a sheriff's office. She glances towards the camera so Edward will be aware it's there. In her mind, she says, _I talked to Alice on the way here. She told me some of what she was seeing. There's a real danger this could go national. We've got a fucking mess on our hands._

He doesn't respond obviously, but lays his head down on his arms again. This time it's so he can speak. "Alice got a new idea right before I left." It's very low but Rose hears him clearly.

_What?_

"She's calling Martha Jackson. She thinks that's the key. All I know is that if something doesn't stop Charlie before he gets here, he'll blow the whistle on us even before he sees us. He doesn't know Bella's married, so that itself will look odd. I thought it would be smarter just to go ahead and enact our emergency evacuation plan, but Alice -- and even _Jasper_ -- disagreed."

Rose understands Edward's impulse. Normally, it would be hers as well. Any threat to the family makes her nervous. But now, _We can't just abandon the shelter, Edward._

"You sound like Alice."

_Damn right! And I trust Alice; I know you do, too. It's just hard with Bella in danger._ The sight of Edward, head bowed, shoulders slumped -- even if it's so he can talk to her -- hurts Rose. They might fight but she does love him. Reaching out, she lays a hand on his arm. He looks up finally. She gives him a smile. _We'll find her._

"I need to be out there," he says too fast for the camera to see.

_You need to be here so they won't suspect you. Trust Alice._

He hesitates, then gives an inhumanly quick nod.

It's in Alice's hands, how to lead them out of this labyrinth. The irony isn't lost on Rose that their greatest threat is entirely mortal, whether in the form of Brady, Charlie or overly inquisitive cops.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, next part Thursday, I think. Again, I'm working feverishly to get these parts edited, so I'll be replying to any questions, or if there's something I've just got to say, but otherwise, please know I read EVERY review, and I really appreciate them all. I'll be back to my more usual responses when it's all posted!

Also, tomorrow is the last day for voting in the Bellies (www-dot-thecatt-dot-net), if anybody wants to and hasn't yet. _Blink_ is up for "AU You Imagine as Canon." As I've said before, it's really super cool even to be IN that category in the first place, that readers think so highly of what I've built here. There are some other fantastic stories in there that _I'm_ a fan of, including _Creature of Habit_, _Abbracciare il Cantante_, and _Innocent, Vigilant and Ordinary_, so I'm not going to be much fussed if one of those wins. :-) (Btw, no slam against the others nominated I didn't mention; I just haven't read them yet.)


	58. Chapter 58

**Part Summary:** Martha arrives. She and Alice have a chat in the car.

**Again, a public thanks to all you wonderful people who've been reviewing!** I read every one, although as I've said, I've been concentrating on getting this last chapters edited for rapid posting since all these are rather short little parts. Next one tomorrow! We finally hear from Edward. I'll be back to my usual replies when we're done. :-)

* * *

Alice is waiting at the Atlanta airport when Martha Jackson's plane touches down. Not only had there been no need to convince her to come, there'd been no stopping her. Bella is her child too, skin-color and in-law status not withstanding. She did, at least, take Alice's advice not to involve Renee immediately, although Alice knows the police have already called Renee and she and Phil will be on the road shortly. As they're driving, they won't arrive in Helen until mid-morning. Now, Alice has two hours with Martha in a car on the drive back. By the time they reach Helen, Charlie's plane will be touching down in Atlanta and he'll be on the way to the rentals. But Jake should reach Helen sooner because he left immediately after Irene called and didn't have as far to drive to an airport, although he will change planes in Memphis. Not that Alice can see him. She knows because he called Irene from the tarmac in Boise with his flight schedule.

Alice spots Martha coming out of security and waves to her. Martha hurries over and they hug. If Martha notices Alice's cold skin, she doesn't say anything. Fortunately, she has only a carry on so there's no need to wait for luggage. They're in the car and headed out twenty minutes later. "So tell me everything," Martha says as soon as Alice has them safely on the highway. Alice wonders if she really understands just what "everything" is going to entail.

But she can see a little, and Martha is more perceptive than perhaps any of them understood. She knows there's something odd about them all. "It's a long story," Alice begins. "And you already know some of it."

Martha's eyebrow goes up. "Well, we've got us a long car ride, so I guess I got some time on my hands."

Alice nods. "Okay, you know what happened to Bella back in Forks? Why she jumped from the cliff in the first place?"

"I know there are several stories," Martha say, voice cautious.

"And none of them are entirely correct," Alice admits. "Bella wasn't trying to kill herself, like some thought. But she also wasn't just trying to feel alive, like she told people. She was jumping in order to hear Edward's voice telling her _not_ to."

Martha is clearly puzzled. "Edward? Who's Edward?"

As a human, Martha lacks the eidetic memory that might allow her to make instant connections. Alice should have remembered that. "Edward Cullen -- the high school boyfriend who left her suddenly?"

"Oh, that's right. What -- was she hallucinating?"

"No, not exactly." Alice takes a deep breath, then admits, "Edward Cullen is my brother. And Edward Cullen is also Ed Masen. They're the same person. He's Edward Anthony Masen Cullen."

"That boy she's seeing now?" The puzzlement has left Martha's eyes, which have turned sharp instead. She twists in her seat so she can watch Alice. "I'm listening. You better start explaining."

"We're not quite what we seem." She shoots Martha a look. The older woman doesn't respond to this, just continues to watch Alice. "We're, well, uh -- we're vampires." Alice glances over again, but neither Martha's posture nor expression have changed. If she thinks Alice is insane, she's not showing it. If she's scared, she's not showing that either. "Don't worry, we don't eat humans. It's against our beliefs."

"Nice to know," Martha says at last. Her voice is dry. "But if you were going to eat me, I think you went a long way outta your way for a meal. Never heard of nobody from Helen calling Jacksonville for takeout." This comment causes Alice to snort giggles. What Martha doesn't add is, 'Why should I believe any of this?' That's evident.

Alice reaches into one of the cup holders in her Porsche where there's spare change. Finding a nickle, she hands it to Martha to inspect. "A nickle?" Martha seems confused.

Alice takes it back from her and, one hand still on the steering wheel, squashes it into a thin wafer of cupro-nickel alloy, which she then hands back to Martha. "I'd show you more," she says, "but I'm sort of driving. I promise to give a longer demonstration when we get there. But we're not human."

"I'm listening," Martha says again.

"It all started a long time ago, in 1664 . . . "

Alice talks. And talks. And talks. If she were human, her voice would have given out before they reach Helen. Martha asks only a few questions, but otherwise just listens. When they're only about fifteen minutes from Rose's place, she says, "And Mark knew all this?"

"Yes. He and Edward were . . . friends, I guess. Odd as that sounds."

"If you'd known Mark, it wouldn't sound so odd. They both loved the same woman." She's silent for several minutes. Alice lets her chew it all over. "Telling me is dangerous, ain't it?"

"Yes. But it'll be more dangerous if Charlie Swan shows up and says things to make the cops suspicious. If this goes national, the Volturi will come. We'll all die. Bella, Charlie, all of us -- and anybody connected to us, which might mean all the women and children at the shelter. The Volturi are thorough."

"That's a lot of bodies to hide," Martha observes.

"It's not a problem for them, trust me."

"That powerful, huh?"

"That powerful."

"And I make a difference."

"Charlie will listen to you."

"Me and Charlie Swan never got on like me and Renee. Charlie wasn't in favor of Bella marrying Mark."

"I know," Alice says. She struggles to keep her hands from gripping the wheel so hard she turns it to dust. This is the key moment in the conversation. If this doesn't go just right . . . "But Charlie respects you. You're a woman of the cloth. He may not be a religious man, but he respects certain public positions, including ministers and priests."

Martha nods, mulling it all over. Alice waits for the inevitable questions. The big questions.

"Ed -- Edward . . . he hurt Bella."

"Yes. He was young and stupid -- maybe not in years, but in experience. He'd never been in love before. And Bella didn't seem to really realize how dangerous we were to her. They both made mistakes."

"But he and Mark were friends."

"Yes."

"He goes to Mark's grave, don't he?"

Alice glances over. "Yes. Yes, he has. Three times that I know of."

"I thought somebody was going there besides me and the family. At first, I thought it was Renee, but when I asked, she said it wasn't and no reason for her to lie. But that'd explain it. He always leaves fresh flowers -- not plastic."

"That's Edward."

Martha nods again. "Mark trusted him enough to ask him to go with him to the neurologist?"

"Yes."

"And Bella's forgiven him?"

"Yes."

"They're happy?"

"Very."

They've hit the Helen city limits. Alice has to drive through town to get to Rose's. She holds her breath, waiting.

"Well, Bella's never been the flighty sort," Martha says finally. "And that girl's gone through hell already -- lost enough. We gotta make sure she actually gets to keep something this time."

Alice lets out her breath. "_Thank you,_" she says fervently.

Martha nods. "I believe in second-chances and happy endings. It goes with the job. But you know I expect some sort of proof. I ain't no fool."

"I understand. You'll get plenty proof. You can even read Edward and Mark's letters, if you'd like."

"I don't need to read their private mail. But I do want to hear from Edward about my son's real condition, there at the end. Seems like he's the only one -- besides Mark -- who knew."

This, Alice thinks, is what Martha has the hardest time forgetting, and forgiving -- that Mark had known his epilepsy was worsening but hadn't confided in anyone.

"How long we got till Charlie gets here?" Martha asks.

"Two hours and fifty-three minutes. He'll go by the sheriff's office first because he doesn't know where we live, but we'll send someone to stop him before he gets inside."

Martha smiles. "That's some gift you've got there, Alice."

"Sometimes I wish I didn't have it."

"God never gives us more than we can handle. All right, here's what I think we need to do . . . "


	59. Chapter 59

**Part Summary:** Edward is sent home from the police station, and Jacob has arrived. Final plans are made before Charlie's advent. And Alice has an important vision.

For the first time, I'm breaking my one part = one POV pattern, but only once. Edward's POV part is just too short to justify it's own entry. **Again, a public thanks to all you wonderful people who've been reviewing!**

* * *

Edward is in hell. He doesn't dare do anything but pace around the sheriff's office, acting like a distraught husband -- which he is. But he'd be a lot more useful _out there_ with the rest of them, looking for Bella.

To his amazement, Rose has stayed by his side all night. He'd think she didn't trust him except he can see in her thoughts that she's genuinely worried about him -- and about Bella. Aside from playing his part, Edward is waiting for the cops to bring in Brady so he can read the other man's mind and find out where he's holding Bella. But Brady is never brought in. The officers who went to question him come back empty-handed. Edward sees the entire confrontation in their minds. They'd found Brady at home and his mother claimed he'd been there all evening -- just as Alice foresaw. If the officers remain suspicious, Brady has an alibi and a witness, so there's not enough evidence to arrest him or even bring him for further questioning. Furthermore, Brady's work buddies all agreed they hadn't seen him at the store that night. Again, the cops suspect at least some of them are lying, but they can't prove it. They need more before they dare move against Brady.

In fact, Edward can see in the minds of the police that they're divided in their opinion of who's guilty. About half still suspect Brady, another third suspect Edward just because, and the rest think it might have been some other angry spouse of a shelter woman who happened to see Bella there in the store and acted on the spur -- or at least, they're keeping that option open.

Edward needs to talk to Emmett, then go to Brady's mother's house himself and confront the bastard. But he's stuck here. Rose seems to realize that too. She keeps looking at her watch, and once takes a call. Alice's voice comes over the speaker, but he can't quite hear what she says. She's speaking too low even for his ears. Rose closes the phone, gets up and goes out. Edward can hear her talking to the female deputy, who seems to have decided that Edward is exactly what he appears to be -- the worried husband of a kidnaped shelter worker. "Dr. Masen really needs to sleep. He's been on call for an eight-hour shift, then drove back from Atlanta, waited for his wife, and now he's been here for over four hours. Can you find an excuse to kick him out? Make him go home?"

The deputy agrees and a few minutes later, she comes in to talk to Edward. He puts up a fuss -- it wouldn't do to make this too easy -- but finally gives in. He knows he has bruises under his eyes because he needs to hunt, and rubbing them a little makes them appear falsely swollen. He went into the men's room earlier to splash water in his eyes so he looks like he might have been crying. It works. The deputy all but shoves him out the door. "We'll call you as soon as we hear anything. Right now, the best thing you can do for your wife is go home and get some sleep."

Defeated -- or making sure he looks so -- he lets Rose lead him out to their cars. "I'm going to find Emmett, Jasper and Carlisle," he says once he's in his Audi. He knows Rose can hear him.

"No, you're not," she replies from her own driver's seat. "You're going back to the house. Alice wants us all there when Charlie arrives. Jake and Irene will be going to get him before he hits the sheriff's office and Martha's will meet him outside the house to talk to him first."

"The dog's here?"

"Just got there, apparently." She starts the Tesla. "I'd race you back, but they're watching us. Drive responsibly, Edward."

* * *

Esme is caught at the center of the maelstrom, trying to stay calm. The boys just returned to Rose's place, Martha Jackson is in the kitchen making coffee for herself as well as Irene and Jacob Black -- who's done nothing since his arrival but pace. Esme knows he wants to be out looking for Bella the same as Emmett and the rest of them, but Alice insists he and Irene have to be the ones to stop Charlie before he enters the sheriff's office and asks all the wrong questions.

Now, he's all but pounced on Emmett as soon as he walked in the door and they're close to blows. Jacob blames them for letting Bella be taken in the first place, even if he knows it can't be their fault. And Emmett -- like most of them -- is angry with Irene for bringing the police into it. Esme sits beside the Indian girl, holding her hand. Strong as she is, she looks ready to fall apart under the force of their collective anger. Esme thinks even Jacob is annoyed although he'd rip apart anybody else who criticized her.

Carlisle comes over to sit on Irene's other side, gripping her other hand. "It'll be all right," he tells her. "Are the girls asleep?"

"Yes," Irene replies, smile wan. "Thank you for asking. Did you find anything?"

"A little maybe. At least we can verify that the person most likely to have taken her was at the store sometime in the last twenty-four hours, and maybe in the last twelve."

Martha has approached the table to set a mug of coffee in front of Irene, then turn to Carlisle. "You're Dr. Cullen?"

Carlisle stands to shake her hand. "Yes. Carlisle, please. You're Reverend Jackson." It's not a question.

"Martha." Her eyes narrow. "You're really almost four hundred years old?"

Carlisle smiles slightly. "Indeed."

"When all this is over, I want to hear those stories."

"I'd be glad to share some."

Esme can't hide her smile as she watches her husband and Bella's mother-in-law size each other up and form an instant bond. Carlisle has that effect on people. Good people recognize the goodness in him -- even when they know the truth about what he is. It doesn't matter. Likewise, Carlisle seems immediately impressed by Martha, whose taken the whole vampire thing in stride.

But Jacob and Emmett -- and now Jasper too -- are still arguing. Carlisle turns. "Emmett! Jasper! Please cease. Jacob, if you'll give us a moment, we'll share everything we know."

"Jake," Irene says, sounding tired. "Please don't fight. None of this is their fault. They love Bella as much as we do."

"Indeed," Carlisle confirms. He then has them all gather round the coffee table in Rose's living room just as for their old family meetings. In a quiet voice, he explains the Volturi to Jake. Esme already explained them to Irene, and Alice to Martha. Carlisle wants it clear what's at stake here, and Esme is relieved when Jacob doesn't bristle or boast that he could take the Guard. She thinks he might want to, but Irene is squeezing his hand with all her meager strength, and he stays quiet.

"Right now," Carlisle concludes, "we share one goal -- finding Bella and making certain she's safe . . . a job for which we're better equipped than the police . . . "

He trails off and Esme hears two cars arrive. "Rose and Edward," Carlisle says, standing. Jacob stands too and turns to the door. It opens a moment later and Rose flies in, Edward behind her. For a long moment, Edward and Jacob just glare at one another. Edward's head is up and his nostrils flared. Jacob crosses his arms. Esme bites her lip, all but shouting to Edward in her mind not to make a scene.

Another moment slips by, then Edward breaths out and steps forward to offer his hand to Jacob. "Thank you for coming."

Esme watches the wolf decide whether to accept it. Abruptly his shoulders relax and he takes the offer. "Anything for Bella," Jacob says. "We've been friends a long time."

Esme has turned now to watch Martha, who's appraising Edward much as she had Carlisle. Edward approaches her next. "Reverend Jackson. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance. Mark spoke of you often." He pauses to glance at Alice. "Alice did tell you?"

Alice nods and Martha says, "Who you really are? Yeah."

"No, I mean she told you that I knew Mark?"

"That too."

"Then I can say finally that I am very grieved by his loss." Despite the formality of the words, his tone is sincere.

"Thank you," she replies, adding, "You come and visit my boy's grave?"

Edward lowers his head. "He was my friend."

Suddenly choked up, Martha pats his arm and turns away. "We'll talk later."

From her position beside Esme, Alice whispers, "Yes!" Esme looks down at her, and Alice gives her a thumbs up. "We have a chance." Then she checks her watch and announces to all of them, "Charlie should be in Helen at any time. I can't see anything as long as Jacob is here, but I know he'll be headed for the sheriff's office. Irene, Jacob -- if you'll please go and get him. Martha will meet him outside."

"And me," Carlisle adds. "I'll join Martha. The chief might remember me; we got on well once."

Alice blinks at him, but doesn't protest. Jacob, however, does. "Why can't Pastor Jackson go and stop him? I _need_ to be out looking for Bella!"

"Trail's cold -- I told you that," Emmett snaps.

"And like I told _you_, maybe your senses just aren't good enough."

Jasper steps between them. "Jacob -- if you can still pick up the trail where we can't, I doubt an hour or two will matter. But if we don't keep Charlie Swan from going ballistic, I promise you that whether or not we find Bella, the Volturi will silence us all." He meets Jacob's eyes. "Nor would they stop with us. They'd likely attack your reservation because they'll decide you're the enemy. I don't need Alice's gift to know that. Maybe you'll be able to stop them, but they _will_ kill a lot of you first. Do you really want to risk that? Do you want to leave your daughters without a father -- or the boy that's on the way?"

Jacob's brows lift. "How do you know it's a boy?"

"It has to be," Alice says. "I can't see Irene, but should be able to. We discovered, after Bella's accident, that I can't see the werewolves. Anybody else, yes, but something about you blocks me. I could see Irene before, but not now. That means she's carrying your son and he's got your shape-changing gene. That's why I couldn't see that Bella would be taken tonight."

"You're saying it's our fault?" His voice lifts.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Martha breaks in, hands on hips. "This ain't nobody's fault except the one who took Bella! But it'll be _all_ our faults if y'all don't quit fighting long enough to do something useful!"

Jacob actually lowers his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

Irene has stood. "We should go. We'll find Charlie, I promise." Esme knows Irene blames herself for all of this getting out of control quickly, so she wants to do whatever she can to fix it.

"You remember how to get to the station?" Esme asks.

"I do," Irene replies, taking the keys to Jacob's rental car from him. "If any of the girls wake, tell them we'll be back soon."

When Jacob and Irene have been gone about five minutes, Alice suddenly sits down hard on the couch, her eyes going out of focus. Jasper and Edward rush to seat themselves one on either side of her. The rest of the family gathers around even if there's no reason for them to. It's anticipation. Even Martha comes over.

"A small building -- probably raised off the ground," Alice says abruptly. "She can hear that it's hollow underneath. All I can see is the inside because that's all she can see. It's big enough for three people, maybe four, to stand. It's completely empty inside, but there are two windows at shoulder height for a man, one oblong and one square. She can't reach either because she's tied up on the floor. She's alone. It's probably morning."

"Can she hear anyone talking?" Emmett asks even as Jasper takes the pen and pad of paper that Rose just fetched. He puts it in Alice's hands and she begins to sketch at vampire speed.

"No, nobody's there. Just her." Alice opens her eyes to look down at what she's drawn. "That's all I see. I'm sorry."

She turns the paper. It's a nondescript wooden building about the size of a large out-house, but without the usual 'facilities.'

"A tree house?" Martha asks. "It looks sort of like a kid's tree house, especially if she thinks it's raised off the ground."

"No, not a tree house!" Esme shouts suddenly, recognizing it even if it's been almost a hundred years since she's had any reason to be inside one. "It's a deer blind! That's the firing slat." She points to the oblong window.

Emmett is nodding. "I think you're right. And it gives us some idea what we're looking for."

"Also," Jasper adds, "if it's a permanent building, it'll have to be on private property. The national forest doesn't allow permanent blinds."

"We'll start on the Joneses' property." Edward gets to his feet but Alice stops him.

"We have to wait for Charlie. You need to be here, Edward. And we know we won't find her before morning."

"It _is_ morning, Alice," Edward says. "It's already gray outside."

Esme glances out a window. Edward is right. "Still," Alice tells him. "We have to wait for Charlie."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, next part will be Bella's (finally) and it should go up late Saturday. You'll finally get the answer to who has her. Charlie's arrival will go up late Sunday. Then there may be a day or three of time off to let everybody catch up + I have a faculty meeting on Monday (blah) and school stuff to do.

An image of a deer blind tower, for those who've never seen one, has been linked on my profile. The one where Bella is being held isn't exactly the same but close -- it's a bit larger, and there's no rail beside the ladder.


	60. Chapter 60

**Part Summary:** Bella wakes in a very bad place.

* * *

Bella wakes when the sun is rising. She's in serious pain from the blow to her head and feels too nauseous even to move at first, certain she'll vomit if she so much as turns her neck. The ache in her skull is pulsing and she keeps her eyes closed initially, opening them only millimeters to see the gray light of a very early day pick out the place around her. Four rough, dark-wood walls rise with windows on two sides placed high. One looks like a normal window, but the other is wide and long, almost the whole width of the wall. They're covered inside with plastic sheeting. There's also a rough door and a moldy carpet remnant beneath her with uneven edges curled up in places. Spiders have made homes in two corners of the roof and it smells of mud and a hint of stale tobacco.

She's lying on her side, her hands tied behind her back and her legs tied at the ankles, although she finds that precaution absurd, considering. Her wheelchair is nowhere to be seen. She can hear sounds _beneath_ her, and something about the light tells her that wherever she is, it's not on the ground.

She has no memory of being brought here, nor of anything after her assailant grabbed her in the grocery and hit her head. She doesn't even know who it was as the whole thing took perhaps ten seconds. All she knows is that the person was male -- and not a vampire.

Memories of James surface suddenly and she shakes all over. If the nightmares stopped years ago, the fear comes back now full-force as if it were only last week. She feels ready to vomit again, but not from the head injury this time.

After a moment of deliberate deep breathing and reminding herself this isn't the same situation, Bella considers the probable who, where and why. Most likely, the "who" is the husband of one of their clients. Brady Jones is the obvious suspect, but it could be any of several others. They currently have five families at the shelter, all there because the men in their lives are violent. What Bella isn't certain of is why she's been _abducted_. If this is hardly the first instance of substitutional violence by angry husbands against shelter workers when they can't get to their own wives, in most cases, that violence is immediate -- impulsive rather than premeditated. The worker is stabbed, shot, hit, or beaten when reached (much like Brady had attacked Hannah and the rest of them in Alice's shop), not taken somewhere else, tied up and left.

Of course Bella doubts her actual kidnaping was premeditated as there would have been no way for anyone to know she'd be stopping at that store, right then. It must certainly have been a spur of the moment choice even if that doesn't explain why she was brought here instead of disposed of immediately and dumped in a creek. Not that she's complaining. She prefers survival to the alternative, especially if no vampires are around to make death optional. Is this what Alice saw? It must be, and if so, then Bella knows she has a chance of making it out still breathing, if not necessarily with a beating heart. At the moment, she'll take an undead future over a plain-dead one.

Now that she's awake enough to ask herself some basic questions and has remembered enough of Alice's vision to believe she has a chance, she turns her mind to a more systematic assessment of her situation. The throbbing in her head has lessened a bit, so she becomes aware of other bodily issues. First, she's cold. She'd not taken her windbreaker into the store last night because the evening had still been warm enough not to need it. But she's been in this room all night, wearing only a long-sleeve t-shirt against temperatures in the low fifties or upper forties. Second, she's hungry and very thirsty -- absolutely parched, in fact. Yet it's the third thing that troubles her most. She's sweating despite the cold and her lower back hurts -- signs that her bladder is full -- not to mention she knows it must have been at least eight hours since she was taken -- the sun is rising -- which makes it at least ten hours since she last voided before they left Cherokee.

It's a miracle her bladder hasn't ruptured already, but she thinks she'd feel the pain if it had. Her saving grace is that, being in the car, she'd drunk less than usual all day, and she has a flaccid bladder anyway, inclining it to stretch. But she's got to do something and do it soon. Her predicament is yet another sign that her captor acted spontaneously as she's been left with no provisions nor arrangements to take care of normal human body needs that, paraplegic or not, everybody shares. TV shows, books and movies about kidnapings skim over these parts because they're neither romantic nor sanitized for public consumption.

She wonders, briefly, if her captor or captors plan to return? Perhaps she was brought out here and left to die after they decided they didn't have the stomach to kill her more directly? She also wonders if she should try to call out for help, or if that might gain her the wrong sort of attention. She remembers Alice saw her outside, and can tell from the noises that she's nowhere near a city or town, or any human habitation. All she hears are forest sounds -- morning birds singing, the wind rustling the leaves, and once somewhere, an owl. Given the amount of forest around Helen -- national and private both -- she thinks she must be in the woods, probably some way from a road. She never hears a car. She decides not to shout because she doubts there's anybody to hear her and her throat is already very dry.

Time passes. She's not sure how much, as being awake and tied up with absolutely nothing to do except concentrate on all the ways her body hurts and how hopeless her situation seems turns minutes into hours. Yet if she can gauge from the sun, it's still early. She's starting to panic, or at least panic worse. If she's sure Edward and the rest are looking for her, she has no idea if they can find her in time. Not all of Alice's visions ended well for her, and if at first, she'd focused on the positive, now it's the death visions that haunt her. Being alone with no information is its own form of torture.

The back pain and sweating is getting worse and Bella knows that -- however nasty it'll be -- she has to void. Better the nasty than a torn and septic bladder. With both hands behind her back and her legs tied, getting enough pressure on her lower abdomen is a trick, but after a lot of squirming and wincing at the pain in her bruised head and stiff muscles, she manages to convince her body to expel urine. She can smell it, if not feel it, and scrunches up her nose. The carpet is soaked, she's sure, and she inches away from the soiled area. It's bad enough to have to do it. She doesn't want to lie in it as well.

She feels like one of those neglected pet shop puppies, left to starve and die in filth.

More time passes. Bella tries to doze. It gets warm, which makes the room stink worse, and also increases her need for a drink. Being made of aluminum siding, the roof of the building transmits heat, and today was supposed to have been warmer than the day before. Bella thinks it may be late morning before she hears any sound below besides forest noises. The silence is cut by the whine of an engine, tires on gravel and sticks snapping under the weight of a vehicle of some sort. A radio blares loudly behind closed windows. She starts to yell, but then bites her tongue when the engine cuts off and a door opens. This isn't a random passerby. She wishes she could stand up and look out one of the windows.

Boots on a ladder make a scuffing sound and shake the whole little building. Bella is both terrified and relieved at once, and tries to back herself over to a corner so she can sit up, but she doesn't get far before the little door is flung open. The climber is still outside so she can't see him, only hear: "Holy, fucking shit! It fucking stinks! What'd you do? Pee your pants? Fucking shit!"

Whoever it is has descended the ladder and remains below, cursing a moment. It's the same voice she heard in her ear the night before. Her abductor.

He goes back to his vehicle, opens something and rummages around. After a minute, he climbs back up the stairs and hauls himself through the door.

She can't see his face. He's wearing a ski mask. Seeing that relieves her because it's the first hint she's had that he might not intend to kill her. If he meant to kill her, he wouldn't care if she knew his identity. "What are you? Three?" he demands. "Do you wet your bed too? Jesus Christ!" He throws down a couple dirty towels in the corner on the soiled rug and stomps on them, then picks them up with a gloved hand. Although she can't see his face, she can imagine the rage on it, and the disgust. After throwing the towels back out the door, he starts to kick her. It's just angry -- not calculated to hit vulnerable spots -- but with her hands tied and no leverage, she can't escape him.

"Stupid bitch!" he says over and over, "Stupid, useless bitch! None of you are good for anything but sex and then you just get pregnant and pop out whining brats and yell at us to pay the bills! I'd be better off with hookers!"

The kicks keep coming and Bella tries at least to hold her head away, although she can't keep from crying out and pleading with him to stop. For once, she's glad she can't feel anything below the waist but pressure. Finally he gets tired of kicking and brings down one booted foot square on her bound ankles. The crack of at least one bone breaking is loud enough for her to hear. That seems to satisfy him, or maybe he just ran out of rage because he stops to breathe heavily. She's never been beaten up before and can't believe how much it hurts. She feels it all over her body, like one giant ache. She pants in counterpoint to his breaths.

After a moment, when the kicking doesn't start up again, she says, "I'm sorry for wetting myself." It seems the wiser move than yelling at him, which would only set him off again. "I couldn't help it. It's been over 12 hours since I was able to go to the bathroom. I couldn't hold it anymore."

"You bitches have bladders the size of peas," he replies. "Always yelling at me to stop the damn car on long trips. No sooner we get on the road than you gotta go again. A car full of women is a drive in hell."

Bella doesn't reply but his comment seems to confirm her hunch that this is Brady Jones. She's only heard him speak once or twice, but he's the right height and build. And now, the reference to a car full of girls makes her think of Hannah and their daughters. She doesn't, however, want to give him any clue that she's figured it out. Instead, she says, "Paraplegics have additional special needs. If we don't . . . take care of things regularly, our bladders could burst."

"Ain't that just too bad?" He holds up his hand and she sees his forefinger saw against his thumb. "World's smallest violin playin' 'My heart bleeds for you.' Cry to somebody who cares."

"If our bladders burst, it could kill us," she tells him, not softening it. "But I don't think you really want me dead or you'd have killed me when I was unconscious." She watches him and if she can't see his face, she can read his body language. He may sound aggressive, but his body is telegraphing fear, tension, and even depression. She knows kinesics, and little clues give him away. His feet are splayed, but they're not wider than his shoulders and he's rocked back on his heels. He keeps his elbows tucked in, his chin is down and his abdominal muscles appear to be relaxed, not tight. His shoulders slump a little. "I think you're not sure what you want, but you feel at the end of your rope." She's wracking her brain for anything she's read about hostage situations. Most people who take hostages don't want to kill them and if she can make herself more of a person to him, it'll be that much harder for him to do so. She needs to give him an out.

"Look. I haven't seen your face so I can't identify you. It's clear that you just grabbed me last night on the spur and didn't think this through, right? You weren't prepared to hold a paraplegic hostage and I'm not sure you really want to. So why don't you leave here, go find a payphone and call in an anonymous tip to the police. They'll come and get me and everybody gets a happy ending."

He starts laughing. It sounds a little manic. "A happy ending? Are you fucking kidding me? My wife left me, she's got my kids, I'm up on felony charges" -- yes, this must be Brady -- "I can't work my old job, just some stupid-ass minimum wage shit job, my fat bitch of a landlady kicked me out of my apartment when I missed rent, and my ma don't want me living with her after June!" His voice has been rising in a rage and now he kicks at her again. "There ain't never gonna be a happy ending for me so I may as well take some other people down with me!"

He's full of anger and wants revenge, believing life has somehow been unfair to him. It doesn't matter if it has been; his perception is what drives him. As she'd feared, he feels cornered and desperate, which is both good and bad. It's bad because it leads him into a 'damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead' mentality, but it's good because with no planning here, he might decide it would be smarter to cut and run, and leave her behind.

"You said you're up on a felony charge." She speaks carefully, not revealing that she knows what it is. "But even a felony charge is different from a capital crime. If anything happens to me, if I die, you'll be charged with murder, or at least manslaughter. That's very serious. It could land you with a life sentence, or even on death row."

He squats down against the wall opposite her, as far away as he can get in the small building. He sounds almost amused as he says, "Then I guess I'll have to be sure they don't catch me now, won't I?"

"Why are you holding me at all?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe I just wanted to see what one of you feminist-types is like. You don't look so tough all trussed up in my hunting blind. I should probably ask for a ransom so I can head down Mexico way. Them people running the shelter are rich, ain't they? That's what Hannah said, and that high-price call girl she got defending her -- she drives a fancy piece of shit even for a bloodsucking lawyer. How much you worth, babe? Think they'd pay me a couple million to get you back? That'd last me a long time south of the border. Or maybe I oughta sell you for a bargain, seeing as how you're only good from the waist up, right?"

He's trying to bait her but she doesn't reply, or at least doesn't reply to that. She also doesn't point out that he just gave away his identity with a slip of the tongue. The pain in her body makes it harder and harder to think, but she strains to reach him somehow. "If you hold me for ransom, that could take a while for them to collect. Meanwhile you'll have to feed me and let me take care of bodily needs or we'll have a repeat of what happened earlier. I'll wet myself. I need food, water, some new pants at least -- men's sweatpants are fine -- and access to a bathroom. And my wheelchair."

"Well, you ain't gettin' none of that, at least not right now, so I guess you'd better suck it up and deal." He pulls out a cell that Bella recognizes as her own. "Okay, let's send your buddies a little message." He's fiddling with buttons. "Smile for the camera." She hears the tell-tale click, then he says, "Video time. Here's your shelter manager, bitches. You can see she's still alive but she won't be for long if you don't do just what I say." He doesn't ask Bella to speak and doesn't seem to care how she responds so she does nothing at all. She can only imagine Edward's reaction if and when he gets this video. "I want three million bucks. No, make that five million. Cash. All that non-traceable shit, too, and no cops. The usual deal." He's obviously making this up as he goes, having no idea how to handle a kidnaping, which encourages Bella. She knows from talking to her father that most criminals get caught on their first or second offense because they're criminally _stupid_. "I'll call later with instructions about where to deliver it. Once I got it, and it's counted, I'll call you back and tell where you can find her."

He closes the phone. "No cell phone towers out here. I'll have to send it later." He stares her down then from behind the mask. His eyes are light brown and slightly blood-shot. Even from across the room, he reeks of beer. "You'll be my ticket out of this hellhole, dead-end life. I'll go down where it's warm and the chicks know how to treat a guy. See you later, sweetcheeks."

Standing, he turns to the door. "I really need some water!" Bella cries out. "At least a little water." She's almost sobbing.

He looks over his shoulder at her. "I don't think so. You'll just piss it out again, and I don't care if you live or die so long as I get my money."

"What if they insist on better proof that I'm still alive?"

"I don't think they'll need that. They're them bleedin' heart types. They'll pay up if there's even a chance you're still alive. So long." And he swings out the door down onto the ladder.

"Wait!" Bella calls, desperate. "Wait! Don't leave! You don't know who you're dealing with! If you want to get out of this alive, you'll let me go -- take me back to them!"

She hears only laughter below. "Yeah, right," he calls. "What's your blonde hooker of a lawyer gonna do? Beat me over the head with her briefcase?"

"If you only knew," Bella mutters to herself. His step recedes and she hears the door of his vehicle open again, then the engine starts and the door slams. He drives off. Exhausted and hurting too much to think, she drops her head back onto the mildewed carpet and starts to cry.

* * *

**A/N:** So now you know who took her. Not a huge surprise; we've been working up to this all along.

A couple of points. First, there are 8 more parts total after this, including epilogue. A couple of those, like the very next, are rather long. Several a short. I am going to post the "Charlie's arrival" part late tomorrow, but then will take SEVERAL DAYS BREAK. You'll see that it'll be a good place to pause, catch a breath, and let some of the readers catch up. A lot of you would like me to post it ALL NOW. But some are begging for me to slow down! This is a middle road. I've got some school stuff to do, so I probably won't post again before Wednesday or possibly even Thursday. I won't leave you hanging long, I promise. *I* want to get it all up before I have to start teaching.


	61. Chapter 61

**Part Summary:** Charlie arrives finally. Many things are explained.

* * *

The rising sun sits orange on the horizon and this will (unfortunately) be a beautiful, cloudless spring day -- although the vampires waiting in the house aren't watching the sunrise. They stand by Rose's big front bay window and listen; none breathe. Outside on the driveway, Martha and Carlisle have met a very angry Charlie Swan, delivered by Jake and Irene. Edward doesn't want to be here, but Alice keeps insisting that he won't find Brady (or Bella) yet, and it's essential he face Charlie.

Sifting minds, Edward can see that right now, Charlie is angry only because the Blacks have insisted he come here when he really wants to get to the sheriff's office so he can help with the manhunt for Bella. He's not especially surprised to find Martha, but while he recognizes Carlisle's face, he can't place where from until Martha says, "You knew Dr. Carlisle Cullen back in Forks, right?"

Edward nearly winces as Charlie's mind clouds with new anger -- not at Carlisle himself, but at Carlisle's inability to control his adopted son better. He seems puzzled by Carlisle's youth but chalks it up to weird morning light or not remembering Carlisle from before as well as he'd thought. "Good to see you again, doc. You come because you heard my daughter was taken?" But the words are a formality before he turns back to Martha. "You mind explaining why I'm here so I can get back to the damn sheriff's office? Bella's out there somewhere!"

"We know, Charlie," Carlisle says. "We've been searching for her much of the night -- I and my sons."

Edward can hear Charlie's internal _What the hell?_ even if he says only, "All of 'em?"

"Yes. Edward, too. Especially Edward. He's distraught."

"Funny, since he wasn't ten years back. What's he even doing in Georgia?"

"There're a few things we didn't know," Martha says; her voice is wry. "Some mighty big things -- things Bella knew. And my son Mark knew, apparently. Jake here knows, and his wife. They _are_ part of those missing pieces." She sighs and touches the middle of her forehead. "What's the best place to begin . . ."

Edward can hear Charlie thinking, _The beginning,_ but he doesn't say it. He has a dry humor much like his daughter's.

It's Irene who speaks. "You know that Quileute story about the tribe being descended from wolves and having wolf-people as protectors? The one Billy tells sometimes about his ancestor?" They can all see him nod and she goes on, "It's not a legend. It's true."

_"What?"_ He sounds more amused and disbelieving than shocked.

"Jake, I think it'll be easier if you just show him. Charlie -- don't be afraid."

"Well," Jacob says, "I've gotta strip or I'll rip my clothes, so, uh -- "

"I'll turn around, hon," Martha says.

"What is this? Some kind of joke?" Charlie asks, still sounding bemused but also perhaps a little angry at what he considers crazy talk and distractions. Edward can see not only in Charlie's mind -- but on his face -- his stunned reaction to Jacob's transformation. For a moment, he's entirely unable to speak, then shouts, "Holy shit!" -- glances at Martha and adds, "Uh -- sorry."

"That's okay. I've heard worse. I've said worse."

"What's this got to do with Bella?" Charlie presses.

"Jake is going to help track her," Irene says. "But it's also -- well, do you remember the main monsters the wolves were created to guard against?"

"No. It's just a damn story. Well, I guess maybe not just -- "

"Cold Ones," Carlisle interrupts quietly. "Blood drinkers. Vampires."

"You're trying to tell me Bella got abducted by _vampires_? This is real life, not _Creature Feature_!"

Edward can not only feel the amusement in Carlisle's mind but hear it in his voice as he says, "Actually, we're fairly certain Bella was abducted by the very human husband of one of our shelter residents, a man named Brady Jones. What we're trying to tell you is that as shape-changers are real, so are vampires. But in this case, the vampires are, well -- we'd like to think we're the 'good guys.' We're going to help find your daughter."

Charlie is trying to think like a dad and a cop at once. "We?" he asks.

"My family. _We're_ the Cold Ones, Charlie. Well, some of them. Didn't you wonder why I haven't aged in ten years? Our lifestyle is rather different from anything you might have seen from Bela Lugosi in those _Creature Feature_ movies you alluded to, however. We don't hunt people. We eat only animals, much like you. My job is to heal people, not kill them."

Charlie Swan is still trying to figure out if all of them are having him on. Not only is he a hands-on, "show-me" sort of guy, but even with the evidence sitting right there on his haunches, tongue lolling -- he's not convinced. It's not what his science-based reality knows, and however long he's been connected to the Quileute, and despite the fact he once married Renee, he just doesn't buy into this "supernatural bullshit," as his mind is characterizing it all.

"This isn't some bizarre Reality TV show, is it?" Charlie asks. "Call the police chief halfway around the country and then make him look as gullible as a rookie?"

"No, Charlie -- not in the least." Edward sucks in breath as he realizes what Carlisle is about to do. They've all been standing in the shade cast by Rose's house. Now, Carlisle walks a little way to the east -- out into the morning sunlight. "You see?" he calls. "This is why we can't be seen by daylight. It doesn't burn us, but it makes it clear we're not human. It's why we lived in Forks. Lots of sunlight wasn't something we had to worry about."

Martha hasn't seen that yet, either -- nor Irene, nor even Jake -- and Edward can read all their reactions. They think Carlisle is spectacular . . . like an angel. But there are dark thoughts, too. Lucifer had been the Angel of Light before his fall, and the devil is said to be beautiful.

"I'm still not sure," Charlie says with some annoyance, "why we're here for Mythic Creature Morning when you said Bella's been taken by somebody's husband -- who's human?"

Martha seems to have decided to cut right to the chase. "We're here because if you went to the station and heard their facts, you'd be able to put two-and-two together and not come up with four -- and start the wrong kinda investigation. It wouldn't find Bella, and if we don't stay mum about who they really are, there are other vampires out there who aren't so nice. They'll come after _all_ of us. And they don't eat animals."

"You realize how _crazy_ this sounds?" Charlie asks her. A part of him just doesn't want to believe because if he does, it'll force him to re-think 'fact' and 'fiction,' and that disturbs his neat categories.

"Oh, I know." Martha's nodding. "But Charlie, Bella's out there with somebody crazier. These guys have a better chance of finding her than the police. No offense."

"You trust 'em?"

For a moment, the rest of them disappear in Charlie's mind -- Carlisle, Jake, Irene. It's just him and Martha, the two completely human players in all this mythological insanity. This is what Alice foresaw. Charlie needs _someone_ to help him bridge the belief gap. He's a good man, but he takes convincing.

"I do," Martha says without hesitation. "I got here about midnight and I been watching. I trust 'em." And Edward can see in her mind that she does. After having met her, he now understands why Mark had been the man he was. "But don't just take my word for it. How long you known Jake there, and Irene?"

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?" Charlie asks Jake. "How long have you been . . . this?"

Edward can sense the hurt in Charlie, and understands the second reason Martha is there. If it were just Jacob and Charlie, things might have descended into bruised feelings very fast. The fact Martha wasn't told either makes Charlie feel less on the outside.

Jacob ducks behind Rose's garage to change back into his human form and put on clothes. "We weren't allowed to," he says when he emerges. "My dad -- he wanted to tell you. He's been your friend a long time. You even know when it started -- with Sam Uley, not long after the Cullens first moved back to Forks. They lived there once before in the 1930s. Ephraim Black made a treaty with them when Carlisle here convinced him they weren't human blood-drinkers. They wouldn't come onto the reservation, and we'd leave them in peace."

"_Carlisle?_" Edward can sense Charlie turning to look at Carlisle. "How _old_ are you?"

"Three-hundred seventy-eight years." Silence follows that.

After half a minute while Edward can see Charlie's mind attempting to process all this, Charlie goes on the offense. "That's why you left, back then? Because the wolves made you? Because Bella found out who you were?"

"Not quite. We left because we feared we might unintentionally harm Bella. It was to protect her."

"So she does know? What you are?"

"Yes, she knows."

"Mark did too," Martha adds.

"Edward told Mark because Bella had told him," Carlisle explains. "If they were to be married, she needed to be honest about exactly what had hurt her so badly. Mark feared Bella was mentally ill. Edward came to show him that her story was true."

"He asked me, but I couldn't tell him either," Jacob explains. "I'm not supposed to be telling you, but I figure I didn't -- exactly. Carlisle did. Well, Irene did. Anyway, it's a special case and, uh, you're all but one of us. You and dad grew up together. But not even all members of the tribe know. It's limited to those of us who're shape-changers, our wives, our kids, and the tribal council -- although these days, I think that's better'n half the tribe. There's more to it, but I'll explain later. It's not immediately important."

"I'll hold you to that explaining, son."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm still missing something, aren't I?" Charlie asks. "You're easing me into something?"

Edward can sense the amusement from both Carlisle and Martha. "Once a cop, always a cop," Carlisle says. "But this is exactly why we needed to see you first. You're not a stupid man. Why don't you come in, and we'll explain the rest. My family is waiting, but we all thought it best if you spoke to the four of us first."

"I'm still being finessed."

Edward senses Carlisle putting his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "It's a long story, and some parts of it aren't immediately relevant -- as young Jacob just indicated. We don't want to keep you in the dark, but we're trying to get to the most critical elements that you need to know before you go to the sheriff's office, so the rest of us can get out there and look for Bella again."

The rest of the family resume normal positions around the living room. Edward deliberately stands furthest away. He knows Charlie Swan is angry, confused, and dead certain the other shoe is about to drop. He also wants a better explanation for why Edward left Bella ten years ago, but right now, he's mostly concerned with getting to the sheriff's office and helping to find his daughter. He's not the only one who wants to get busy. Edward glances at the clock on the microwave -- 7:56 -- then over to Alice. She shakes her head. With the wolf back, she can't see anything now, but her expression is anxious. He knows how much she hates not being able to see what's coming next.

Rosalie's front door opens, and the five from outside enter.

Charlie's hair has gone gray. That's Edward's first observation in the clear light of the living room lamps. The silver once only at his temples has taken over and his face is deeply lined. Then again, it couldn't have been easy for him to watch his only child cope with a life-changing and chronic injury. Seeing the Cullens again -- all of them unchanged -- takes him aback. And takes him back in time, too. In flashes, Edward sees what happened to Bella through Charlie's eyes and must grip the kitchen counter to keep his regret from overwhelming him. Not for how Bella suffered after he'd left -- he'd known about that. No, he sees how _Charlie_ suffered, both because he'd felt helpless to soothe his devastated daughter, and because he'd blamed himself for Bella jumping. That's why he'd been so willing to let Renee bring Bella back to Jacksonville. Edward wonders if Bella knows this -- doubts it. Charlie would gladly have sold the house he'd been in for almost twenty years just so he could buy one to accommodate her needs, but he'd decided that it'd be best for _Bella_ to live with Renee. He thought Renee could've talked to her better -- kept her from doing the rash things that eventually got her injured. He believed himself to be a bad, or at least inadequate, father.

Edward wants to speak, to explain everything and reassure Charlie, but he feels Jasper's grip on his wrist. "There'll be time for that. We hope." He speaks too low for the humans to hear. "Right now, we need to get him up to speed enough that he can go to the sheriff's office and _we_ can get out looking."

"Sun's out," Edward says, needlessly.

"That's going to stop you?"

"Not hardly," Edward replies.

It's Rose who comes over to Charlie now. She's been fierce and eager to do whatever it takes to get her friend back. "Welcome to my home. Please have a seat."

"Your home?" Charlie asks -- not sitting. "I thought this is where Bella was living with . . . "

He trails off. Edward can _see_ it in his mind as he makes connections. "You're the one she started this shelter with."

"Yes," Rose confirms, then motions to Esme. "Esme, too. 'Anne.' We knew the name Esme was too memorable."

Charlie looks around at all of them, beginning, at last, to recognize the scope of the deception. "Bella's been back with you -- "

"Since after Mark died," Edward hears himself say. Charlie narrows in on him and his dark eyes turn to slits. "We helped her after. I knew Mark."

"Martha implied that."

Martha, Edward notes, has laid a hand on Charlie's arm but doesn't speak.

"We were friends, Chief Swan -- Mark and I. But I stayed out of Bella's life. She was happy." These are important things for him to say. "Mark made me promise that, if anything did happen to him, I'd look after Bella."

"So you just . . . swooped back in like some knight on a white horse and she _forgave_ you?" Charlie sounds incredulous.

"Not quite. Actually, the first time she saw me, she told me to go to hell." This brings an unexpected laugh not only from Charlie, but from everybody in the room. He's never told anyone that before. "It took a while. She wasn't ready to forgive me immediately, no. And she started this shelter with Rose, Esme and Alice quite apart from me -- maybe in spite of me."

"But," Charlie says. "I hear the 'but.'" Then he stops as another puzzle-piece falls into place. "You're that 'doctor' she's seeing -- Ed Masen."

"Yes. My birth name was Edward Anthony Masen. And I really am a doctor. That's all true. Just . . . not the complete truth."

"That's why we needed to talk to you first, Charlie," Carlisle says, indicating a seat and hoping the chief takes it this time. He does. Carlisle sits down on the couch, putting himself on the same level as Charlie, not above, and leans forward, turning a little so he can face Charlie more than the couch might normally allow. His hands are gripped together between his knees. "There is one vampire law. Only one. Keep the secret. It's none too different from the prohibition the wolf pack lives under. No human is supposed to know what we truly are -- on pain of death. My family chooses to live among you, so we must move every five to ten years before it becomes too obvious that we don't age. We have various aliases. Our alias here isn't the same as it was in Forks. But it's all to conceal our true nature. You can imagine what would happen if my kind were discovered by yours as anything more than a myth. That's the reason for the law. We also have a . . . a police force, I suppose you could call them. They're a family -- very old, very powerful, very wealthy -- who reside in Italy. They have a guard -- sort of like a secret service."

"Or like the mob," Martha mutters.

Charlie glances up at her where she's standing beside his seat. "These are those other vampires Martha mentioned? The ones who eat people."

"Exactly. The Volturi. I'll explain in more detail later, but it's important to understand the magnitude of their reach and influence. They are the ones who punish vampires -- and hapless humans -- who break the law, and they're inexorable. We have kept this shelter from them because they would probably not approve. They'd consider it too much of an exposure risk. Not to mention we don't want them to know that Bella knows the truth about us. They do have their virtues, but I'm afraid humanitarianism isn't high on their list --"

"What he's trying to say," Rose interrupts, which annoys Edward to see her disrespect Carlisle so, "is that they pretty much consider humans like cattle. Getting rid of any who know too much is like shooting a lame horse or putting down a rabid dog. We think differently from them. I didn't ask for this life -- none of us did -- and I don't want to be a monster. I hate it. I started this shelter to help other women who've suffered like I did, maybe keep them from dying like me. I was gang raped and left for dead. Carlisle found me and made me like him." Her voice is matter-of-fact, but Edward can see in Charlie's mind how her story affects him. Edward has decided that men come in two basic types -- those who commit rape and those who are deeply angered by it. Charlie most definitely falls into the latter category. Edward is also struck by how much more forthright Rose is these days about her past. Instead of just being just angry, she uses it.

"I'm not going to let the Volturi shut me down and kill us," Rose continues. "And they will. They'll kill _all_ of us, including the women I'm protecting, just to be on the safe side. That's why you can't say the wrong thing. You're the only one involved who knows enough to ask all the wrong questions, get Edward arrested, and blow it into a national news story -- and bring the Volturi. That's why we had to stop you before you got to the sheriff's office. We need to know you're not going to do that so we can get out there and get Bella back from the real monster who took her. She's my friend. She helped me build my dream -- made it possible -- and I'm going to get her back. Now, can we trust you?"

The thoughts going through Charlie's head are interesting and Edward realizes that maybe it wasn't Martha who -- ultimately -- would gain Charlie's cooperation, although her presence here has primed him to listen. It's not Jacob, either, or Carlisle, and certainly not Edward.

It's Rose. All business, blunt Rose hit every button Charlie has. His daughter is doing something meaningful and got hurt for trying to protect others -- but she has a fierce friend who wants to cut the chatter and get her back pronto. That appeals to Charlie's own instincts. Edward knows he'll have to answer to Charlie later, but right now, Bella's father's mind is made up.

He stands. "Okay, you tell me what I need to know about who you are here and let's get this show on the road, people."

Rose stands as well, and Carlisle. All of them do, Emmett and Jasper already heading for the door. "Wait," Carlisle says, grabbing Emmett's sleeve. "Another minute." His smile to Charlie is strained. "As you can see, our family is chomping at the bit, as well."

Alice steps forward and gives Charlie an unexpected hug. "Missed you, chief," she says, then transforms into Tiny Commando Mode, taking charge in a way even Rose can't. She's their natural organizer. "Okay, here's the story." Her words practically trip over themselves getting out. "Locally, we're known as three friends and their extended family. Esme, Rose and Bella supposedly all attended North Florida University in Jacksonville and became close there. They all went on to do other things, but stayed in touch. Esme sometimes goes by 'Anne' -- but that was mostly for Martha and Renee's sakes -- and yours, chief. Anyway, Rose is a lawyer -- I mean really, she is; we've all been to school lots of times." Charlie just nods at this, as if recognizing that it makes sense. "Anyway, she deals in family law. So she contacted Bella, who's getting her masters in women's studies. And with Esme's help, they started this shelter.

"Esme and Edward have been in Helen for several years while Edward finished medical school at Emory. They're posing as siblings here under the last name Masen; Esme runs a refurbishing business. Emmett is Rose's husband, and Jasper is Rose's brother, and of course, I'm married to Jasper. Jasper and I moved down here and I keep the shelter books, but I also run an accessories store in town which is the shelter's public face. We all go by Hale, although Emmett goes by McCarty. Rose kept her maiden name for her law practice. Carlisle, of course, is married to Esme. His name is Cullen here, too, but he's the only Cullen. So that's how everything fits together."

Charlie is nodding and Edward can tell he's followed this easily as it's not too different from the story they'd put forward in Forks. "I figure at some point you'll tell me the _real_ relationships between all of you?"

"Oh, yes," Alice assures him. "Anyway, as Bella's father, you'd know at least some of that, and we didn't want you giving the wrong story or wrong names or asking questions and getting the police to start investigating _us_, because while we're pretty good at our records and documents -- and we really do have the specialities we say we do, we don't lie about that -- if they look _too_ deeply, they'll start turning up questions. If the focus of this investigation turns from Bella to us and Edward, they'll lose track of finding Bella and the whole thing will be picked up by a national news network, bringing the Volturi pronto. Saving Bella won't matter if the Volturi kill us all. I've seen it, so we have to be very careful."

"You've _seen_ this?" His face is incredulous.

"Oh, yes -- sorry. We didn't have time to explain all that. But some of us have special gifts, beyond the normal vampire gifts."

"Glittering in the sun is a gift?" Charlie asks. "Or is it turning into bats?"

It's Emmett who lets out the largest laugh and -- to Charlie's complete surprise -- lifts him up from behind, raising him overhead. "No bats," Emmetts says even as Rose scolds him, "Put the chief _down_ this minute!" She sounds more like his mother than his wife.

Charlie's face is completely white as Emmett sets him back on his feet. "We're much stronger and faster than humans," Carlisle explains quietly with a glare at Emmett. "But normally, we try _not_ to scare people. We also have exceptional hearing, sight, and sense of smell. It's the latter in particular that will help us find Bella, we hope."

"Okay," Charlie says, glancing back to Alice, who he's gathered is the Keeper of Succinct Information.

"Anyway," she says, "I can see the future. Sort of. When Jacob and Irene aren't around -- I can't see the wolves, for some reason -- and it's not an exact science. The future changes every time somebody changes his mind. So I have to be careful, but it helps. That's why I knew we had to stop you or the Volturi would come. So yeah, the other thing you need to know is that Edward and Bella are married."

And just like that, she drops the _real_ bombshell. Edward watches Charlie's face as he struggles to follow all that but hangs on the last sentence. "Uh -- _what? Married?_ I thought they were just dating!"

Alice shoots Edward a glance. "No, they're married. It's recent. They were friends first. And it wasn't made public because, yeah, that would've been hard to explain. But it is legal so she has access to all Edward's -- "

"_They're married?_"

"Yes, sir," Edward says softly. "I love your daughter." He meets Charlie Swan's furious eyes. "I made a terrible mistake ten years ago -- yet I left to protect Bella from what we are. She got over me and married Mark. She did love him; none of that was a lie. And I did stay away from her. Later, she forgave me." Edward shrugs. He knows he must keep this very simple, not because Charlie can't follow complex, but because they don't have time to deal with an enraged father trying to take a piece out of Edward's hide. "I had to prove myself. It took a while. We were married in December. As Alice said, it couldn't be public -- for a lot of reasons." He holds up his hand to show the gold band Bella put there. He's been wearing it since Irene called him from Krogers as if it can keep him connected to Bella somehow.

"You needed to know that," Alice breaks in, "because it is a matter of public record. We didn't want you freaking out when the local police refer to Bella's husband. She really does have one."

"And he would really like to leave now to find her." He glances at the kitchen clock again. It says 8:42. "Have we covered enough?"

Alice is looking at Charlie. All of them are, but as angry as Charlie might be right now, Edward knows he's pragmatic. "All right," he says, nodding his head even as he glares at Edward. "You and I are having a little _chat_ later." The words are as hard as granite.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know -- later," Edward agrees. He looks at Emmett, Jasper and Jacob. "Let's go find Brady Jones."

"One last thing." It's Martha speaking. She's been mostly quiet, watching. "If we took time for all this, you can give me one more minute."

All of them stare at her. Reaching out, she takes Charlie's hand on one side and Carlisle's on the other. "Hold hands, people. We need to ask God's help in this."

Edward freezes. She wants to _pray_? She wants vampires to _pray_? But she's looking _right_ at him, as if she knows he's the one least willing to do this. Carlisle, Esme and Charlie have already bowed their heads, as have Irene, and Emmett, and even Jasper, Rose and Alice -- he and Jacob are the hold outs. Finally Jacob bows his, although it's reluctant and Edward can hear him muttering what Edward knows from his mind is a prayer in his own language. "You think God will listen to us?" Edward asks. "We're vampires."

"God always listens," Martha tells him, sounding uncannily like her son -- or he sounded like her. "The question is whether we listen to God."

Edward bows his head.

"Oh, Father God," Martha begins, "our prayer this morning is very simple, Lord. We ask you to watch over your precious daughter, Bella." Edward hears a little murmuring, mostly from Irene and, interestingly, Emmett, who supply 'Amens.' "We ask you to guide our hunters, Lord, help them find her and bring her back to us. We know all things are possible for you, who created the whole wide earth and all the heavens. We may be a motley crew here, but we know you made each of us as you meant us to be because you don't make mistakes. You judge men by what's in their hearts. You see through to what's true, Lord -- not whether we're human or vampire or shape-changer. We're all your children, Father God, and one of us is lost. Help us find her and don't let nobody get hurt, not even the one who took her. In the name of your precious son, Jesus Christ, we pray, Amen."

Amens echo softly and Edward finds himself unexpectedly moved by the simple words. God doesn't make mistakes. It's the first time he's ever considered that maybe he is what he is by divine intent instead of divine damnation. He suspects Bella would agree with the sentiment.

But he doesn't have time to mull that over. Their circle, briefly united, dissolves into pockets of activity. Irene and Charlie prepare to head back to the sheriff's office along with Rose. Martha and Esme will take Irene's children (who've decided Esme's an adoptive aunt like Bella), and go to the shelter because by now, word of what's happened has probably begun to spread. The story may not be national news, but it's front page of the morning edition of the regional paper and has been mentioned on every White County TV and radio station. Alice will go to her shop to get far enough away from Jacob to fish for some sort of vision pin-pointing better where Bella is. She also needs to see when Renee and Phil will arrive.

The rest of them will hunt. And Brady Jones will need that prayer Martha offered because when Edward finds him, his life won't be worth much unless he can lead them to Bella.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, that's the last (very long) part before several days' break. Nothing more till late Wednesday at most, and more likely late Thursday. As you can see now, this isn't a bad place to pause.


	62. Chapter 62

**Part Summary:** Esme and Martha coordinate the search effort. Esme gets a disturbing phone call and Chip Clayton gets his fifteen minutes of fame.

Again, thanks to EVERYbody who's reviewed. I've replied to some and will continue to reply to questions and such, but we're now in the "home stretch." Just a few more parts, about 5 I think, counting epilogue. I'll be getting them up in short order like I did with the previous set. I hope you enjoyed your break. Things are about to get tense.

* * *

Once the problem of Charlie is settled, things move quickly. Esme and Martha find themselves the unexpected center of the information hub -- largely because of Martha's mad Blackberry skills. "Gotta learn to use one of these things as a pastor," Martha explains while texting rapidly with both thumbs. Esme is impressed. "Old dogs can learn new tricks when required." Martha glances up. "Although I expect you're an older dog than me."

Esme laughs. They're in Bella's own office and the door is closed for the moment. Esme is filtering the various news feeds on Bella's computer. "I expect I am."

"So when were you born? Are you as old as Carlisle?"

"Oh, no. I was born only in 1897."

"'Only,' she says."

Esme grins again, but then goes on to tell Martha her story, briefly -- the real story, not the adjusted version she'd shared last time -- while they compile what their hunters have learned.

Jacob had only slightly more luck than Carlisle, Emmett and Jasper did at sniffing out Brady at the grocery -- which is still closed this morning as a crime scene continuing investigation (much to the manager's irritation). He can at least say Brady _was_ there the night before. But he loses the scent in the parking lot, just as the others had done. At least, looking at the tire tracks in the gravel, he's fairly sure they're truck tires. "Owning a repair shop is good for something," he says. Despite their earlier quarrel -- or maybe because of it -- he and Emmett are working together this morning, going to places where people might be because Jacob can get out in the sun even if Emmett can't.

Edward, Jasper and Carlisle went immediately to the home of Brady's mother where he's been staying, although they don't attempt to talk to her. With Edward, they don't need to. Brady isn't home, and his mother seems genuinely ignorant of what he's done, although Edward can see in her mind that she suspects. Brady had arrived home shortly before eleven the night before, frightened and begging her to tell the cops when they came that he'd been home with her all evening. Apparently, he was supposed to meet some of his work buddies for a beer after they got off -- which explains why he was at the store at closing, where he must have spotted Bella.

Brady's mother didn't ask questions, figuring it was easier to play dumb if she actually was dumb. She told the police he'd been there all night. An hour later, he was gone again and she didn't ask him where he was going. This morning, she heard about the missing woman on the news and is afraid. Brady's increasingly erratic behavior over the past several weeks has alarmed her. If she never liked Hannah and hadn't seen much wrong with Brady knocking her around some -- Brady's own father had done the same to her, after all -- what he's done since Hannah left has Brady's mother both worried for him and scared of him, especially after that incident at Alice's store with the gun. So if she's angry on his behalf, she scared too. "She definitely thinks he could have done it," Edward tells Martha on the phone. Esme can overhear through the phone speaker. "She's not sure what he actually _did_ with Bella though." Edward's voice is trembling and Esme knows he's worried Brady already killed Bella in a fit of rage. Jasper and Carlisle have snooped the grounds, or as much of it as they could in the sun, but didn't scent Bella anywhere on the property. Nor are there any deer blinds like Alice saw, either. Bella isn't there and hasn't been there. "Has Alice seen anything else?" Edward asks, trying to control his nervous swallowing. "If she'd just let me come here to start with . . . "

Esme holds out her hand for the phone and Martha passes it over. "Don't panic, Edward," she says into the speaker as soon as she gets it. "Alice hasn't seen anything new, but that also means she's still seeing Bella in that blind. She's not dead yet. And the police aren't coming after _you_, so the Volturi are still in Italy."

She can hear his breathing start to regulate itself and he says, "Call me the minute she does see anything else."

"Of course we will. Keep looking on the property of people he knows. He took her somewhere he's familiar with. Alice is sure of that much. Let me talk to Carlisle."

A moment later Carlisle's voice comes over the line. "It's me."

"Alice said to keep Edward, Rose and Emmett away from Brady. Any one of them wouldn't be able to keep from killing him, and that'll get us in just as much trouble. Try to keep that from him. And you should know Renee and Phil arrived about an hour ago. They met Charlie at the shelter. Irene says he's been magnificent, not letting on that anything's unusual. He even managed to keep Renee from freaking out when she heard Bella's married. He's a trooper. Ah -- no pun intended."

That succeeds in winning at least a smile from Carlisle. She can hear it in his voice as he promises to try the farms of some of the Joneses' more wealthy relatives who have more land.

"There's a little more," Esme tells him then. "I wanted to pass this on to you, not Edward. Alice said right now, Brady's not sure what he wants to do. She can't get anything clear because he keeps changing his mind and has all night. She thinks that's been a large part of her problem. It's settled down a little now, apparently, and she can see three possible futures. In one, he just leaves Bella out there to die and we find her. She doesn't think that one's very likely. In another, he goes back and to talk to her, or really yell at her. He blames her -- and the rest of us -- for Hannah's staying away this time. He'll beat her up, but won't kill her. In the third, he goes back to shoot her, then dumps her in a lake. Alice says that vision seems to be dominating right now, which suggests that wherever she's being held, he fears if she's found there, even dead, he'll be blamed. Alice also thinks he's been drinking off and on all night, trying to work himself up to it. Unfortunately, she can only see him in relation to Bella, and at the pace the visions cycle, she thinks _any_ of them is still entirely possible, or they could change in an instant to something new if he gets what he thinks is a better idea."

"Got it," Carlisle says. He pauses then asks, "Does she still see Bella changed, or just dead?"

"She's still seeing both. She even saw some futures where Jacob and Emmett find her first."

"Let's pray for that one," he says and hangs up.

Another two hours pass with no changes. Emmett and Jacob are searching some of the addresses Jasper pulled up of Brady's relatives, and friends. Jasper, Carlisle and Edward search the others. At the station, apparently a debate has erupted about hauling in Brady for further questioning. Right now, he's gone missing, which they find suspicious, but his mother claims he's out hunting and as he isn't due at work until seven, they've got nothing solid to suspect him of. Charlie and the local sheriff, a man named Karl Wynn, are at odds, Wynn insisting he can't just haul in Jones without cause, while Charlie insists Brady's previous violent history towards shelter workers gives them cause enough. Rose is frustrated. "The sheriff has a point," she tells them, "but we know Brady did it and I'd prefer a little more rule-bending on hunches. I think Wynn believes him guilty, too, but won't risk his case by leaping prematurely. Improper conduct or unlawful acquisition of evidence could get the case thrown out. The lawyer in me understands. But I want this guy."

"You stay away from him, Rose. Alice said you're to stay away from him."

"She knows I'll kill him if I think I can get away with it."

Esme is a little taken aback by the completely cold way Rose says that, but this is the woman who hunted down her own killers and wore her intended wedding dress to murder them. Esme doesn't doubt she'll kill Brady if she can. Neither Rose nor Edward are pacifists, and both believe certain crimes deserve death.

As soon as Esme hangs up, three things happen in fairly quick succession. First, someone knocks on the door. Esme answers only to find Hannah there. Her face is white. "I just thought of something," she says. Esme draws her inside and closes the door behind even as Hannah continues, "I think I know where Brady might have took her." Like the rest of them, Hannah is convinced Brady is behind Bella's disappearance. She'd said as much that morning when the news had first broken.

Now, Martha's chair scrapes as she stands. "Where?" Esme asks, gripping Hannah's arms.

"Up near Batesville. An old buddy of Brady's from school moved there and works at some stables. Brady wouldn't take her nowhere right around here. He'd know that's where people will look. But he sees Jordan a few weeks a year, not regular like, mostly during deer season --"

"Jordan's a hunter?" Esme snaps. "A deer hunter?"

"Well, yeah. A lot of people around here are."

Esme has her phone out. "Where is this Jordan's place?"

"South of Batesville not far off Highway 197, near the big stables there. I don't have an address but you could look him up in the phone book. Jordan Saunders."

Esme hugs her tightly. "You may have found her!"

Before Hannah can ask for clarification or Esme can dial Carlisle, the phone in Esme's hand rings -- which puzzles her because everybody has been using Martha's number. When she sees _who_ it is, however, she yanks the phone open almost hard enough to break it. "Bella!"

It's not Bella, but an incoming video. Hannah and Martha -- who'd both leapt to her side when she said Bella's name -- help her open it. They're all horrified by what they see: Bella tied up with one eye swollen half shut and bruises all over her visible skin. Her hair is dirty. In the background a male voice says:

_Video time. Here's your shelter manager, bitches. You can see she's still alive but she won't be for long if you don't do just what I say. I want three million bucks. No, make that five million. Cash. All that non-traceable shit, too, and no cops. The usual deal. I'll call later with instructions about where to deliver it. Once I've got it, and it's counted, I'll call you back and tell where you can find her._

The video ends. Bella had done nothing through the whole thing but look at the camera, yet Esme could see her chest rise and fall, confirming that she's alive.

"That's Brady," Hannah says, taking Esme's phone from her. "I know that's Brady's voice."

Esme is still staring at the now-black screen. "You'll tell that to the police?" Martha asks her, coming around to slide an arm over Hannah's shoulders.

"Of course," Hannah says, voice shaking. One hand has gone to cover her protruding belly. "He's . . . he's really gone off the deep end, hasn't he?"

"I'm afraid he has," Martha tells her. "He's a desperate man right now." She opens her own Blackberry and starts to call Charlie at the sheriff's office, but now her own phone rings before she can dial.

It's Alice. "Turn on the TV!" she all but shrieks over the speaker. "Hurry! Oh, God -- this is terrible. This is terrible. Turn it to Fox News."

Esme is out the door almost too fast, frantic with worry. She hopes Hannah will only think she's seeing things. In the sitting room, Esme rushes to the TV remote and flicks it on, turning to the designated channel. Then she sinks down on a footstool in horror.

They're covering it. It's no longer just a local county-wide story, or even something that might make it as far as Atlanta's late broadcast. Bella's abduction has been picked up by a national network.

But that's not the worst of it. If it were just a side story about a women's shelter worker probably abducted by an angry husband, it wouldn't merit a blip. No, one of the network field reporters is interviewing a blond man in his late twenties wearing a doctor's white lab coat. The name stitched on his left breast reads "Dr. Clayton." They've come in once the interview's already begun but from what he says, Esme can gather he works with Edward.

" -- yeah, I heard about her disappearance. It's just terrible. But I also found it sort of funny because they're saying she's his wife -- but he never told us he was even married. Barely told us he was dating her, actually."

"And that's unusual?" the reporter asks. Down in the left-hand corner of the screen, just above the bottom ticker, there's a picture of Edward, taken from his hospital ID badge. It's not flattering. Edward still poses like it's 1917, not 2017, all seriousness and staid demeanor.

"Well," the doctor named Clayton is saying, "a resident's personal life doesn't have to be shared, but most of us know things like that about each other. Like I said, we knew he was _seeing_ her -- actually, he's been chasing her for months but wouldn't admit it. But now we find out they're married? That's the weird part. Why was he hiding it? All of us, the residents, we spend a lot of time together on-call, and sometimes hang out after work -- grab a few beers. But he never comes -- acts like he's too good for us."

"Too good for you how?"

"He was one of those whiz kids, accelerated through school, so he lacks some normal social skills. It's what you see sometimes with people who are abnormally bright. He's always been a fine doctor, but he does have this sort of superiority thing going."

"So tell us what made you suspicious beyond the fact Dr. Masen doesn't socialize and wasn't very forthcoming about the true nature of his tie to Mrs., ah, Jackson? Or Mrs. Masen, I suppose?"

"Well, one day in the hospital stairwell, he cornered me and knocked me into the wall, and he was just . . . scary. His whole face was enraged. It seriously flipped me out."

"You were afraid for your own safety?"

"Absolutely. I wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he let me go and went on up the stairs. Later, he acted like the whole thing didn't happen. That's just not _normal_, you know?"

"And that's why you think he might be responsible for Isabella Jackson's disappearance?"

"Well, I'm not saying _that_, but I think maybe the cops ought to interview her husband, see where he was that evening. With her being a shelter worker, it's logical, I guess, to assume it's an angry husband, but maybe the 'angry husband'" -- he mimes air quotes -- "was closer to home. I know that in a lot of these cases, it does turn out to be the boyfriend or husband. I mean, look at Laci Peterson. So yeah. I'm just saying the guy's scary violent. Maybe they should question _him_."

"But as Isabella Jackson runs a women's shelter, surely she'd know the dangers of violent men?"

"Well, a lot of these women go right back into dangerous situations too. It's not uncommon. Or they get involved trying to save other women because they're saving themselves."

Esme's hands grip together tightly in her lap. That observation came a little too close to home.

"Anyway, I don't think we can assume that working at a battered women's shelter means she couldn't fall pray to an abusive spouse herself. Who knows what her first husband was like?"

The interview ends. Talking heads appear, mediated by the anchor, discussing violence against women and the percentage of wives who are killed every year by husbands or boyfriends, and while normally, Esme would welcome such a public discussion, she doesn't right now -- not with Edward and Bella at the center of it.

"Well, he sure wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, didn't he?" Martha says from behind Esme. Esme turns to look. Hanna is standing there by Martha, along with several other shelter workers and residents.

"It wasn't Dr. Masen, surely," one of the women says. Her voice is soft with fear. "He always seemed so nice."

"Of course it wasn't Dr. Masen!" Hannah snaps. "We know it's Brady. _I_ know it's Brady! He just called with a ransom video!" She holds up Esme's phone, which she's still holding. She turns back to Esme and hands over the phone. "You get that down to the sheriff's office right now and put an end to this nonsense. A good man shouldn't be blamed for what a bad man did. You can bet them reporters are gonna be up here real soon."

"But who'll stay with you?" Esme asks.

Hannah's chin goes up. "We can take care of ourselves. You tell the police what I said about that being Brady's voice and where he might have took her. I'll sign one of them affidavit-thingies if they need me to. That's Brady on that video. Ain't no doubt in my mind."

The doorbell rings. Everybody looks at each other -- they're not expecting visitors and the shelter location isn't supposed to be public. Esme hurries to answer the door. She's their defense right now. As the door is kept locked at all times, she starts to look out the peep-hole, then doesn't bother, just throws open the locks and all but falls into Carlisle's arms where he stands on the other side. "Alice called us," he says. "She said to come back here immediately."

* * *

**A/N:** Didn't we all know that little "encounter" with Chip Clayton in the stairwell would come back to bite Edward on the ass?

Also, CONGRATULATIONS to Angel for winning with _Creature of Habit_! Like I said before, it's one of those stories that *I* fangirl, so I'm very happy that she won. :-)


	63. Chapter 63

**Part Summary:** Bella finds a way to escape. Just a reminder than this story IS mature, although here for a little blood & gore (less than in _BD_).

* * *

After Brady leaves, it takes about fifteen minuts for Bella to master the pain enough to think. She needs to get out of her cage. While she doubts Brady plans to return, she can't be certain of that and if he does come back, he'll almost certainly be angry about it. This time he might kill her. He doesn't want to mess with her, but once again, his impulsivity has gotten him into trouble. He acted without thinking and is now trying to salvage something from it, seeing her as his ticket out of the country. She wonders how long until he realizes it won't be as easy as he thinks.

If she's confident of anything, it's that Edward and his family are looking for her. She could stay put, but doesn't know how much the building might hide her scent. No doubt she has a better chance of being found outside, even if just by a passing hiker. However fast her vampires can move, it might still take them days to locate her. She is, literally, the human needle in a very big haystack of forest, and she has no idea where she is, how near to or far from Helen. She also needs water -- which she's not getting up here. She knows there are dangerous animals in the forest that might attack her, but all together, she thinks it safer outside than in the building, and she needs to get cracking before she gets any weaker.

The building has a ladder, but she thinks she can negotiate it as long as her hands are free. At least one ankle is broken but that hardly matters as two whole ankles won't do her any good anyway. She just has to get rid of the rope binding her hands. She's already tried to slip her hands free several times, but that got her nowhere, so she decides to try sawing through it on the edge of the carpet remnant. It's old and stiff and therefore, a little sharp, although it'll still take time. Time, she has, and sheer doggedness.

Getting into a good position and making her arms go back and forth, back and forth behind her back for long enough is exhausting, but when it's a matter of life or death, there's no question of stopping. At least the rope Brady used isn't new or particularly high quality -- probably something he'd had somewhere in his vehicle -- so she's able to saw through partially, then tear the rest and wiggle a hand free before throwing it all off and untying her legs. Then she just sits and breathes, letting proper circulation return to her limbs. She considers looking at her broken ankle, but doesn't want to. Even a brief glimpse of purple, swollen flesh had made her ill.

Ready finally, she hauls herself the few feet to the door. As she'd hoped, the exit isn't locked. Like many people, Brady saw the wheelchair and assumed her helpless. She may not have her legs, but she's far from helpless.

Pushing the door open she looks out. She's in a small raised structure on the edge of a field with forest behind. Brady had called it a hunting blind. Not being a hunter, she's not exactly sure but can guess hunters use it to wait for game. Being at roughly the height of a second story, it would let them see better. Of course, being off the ground will make it harder for her to get down, but she can manage. Her arms and shoulders are very strong as a result of pushing herself in the chair every day. If she can get a good grip, she can swing her lower body out, then make her way down the ladder as if she were crossing parallel bars. She might get some splinters, but there are worse things. Working in her favor is the fact Brady hadn't bothered to remove the fingerless gloves she typically wears to keep the wheels of her chair from giving her blisters. The gloves will provide more traction.

The other thing she's so relieved to see, she could cry, is a small stream cutting through the field. She has no idea if the water is clean, but at this point, doesn't really care. It's water. Her throat feels like sandpaper and she wonders if this is what Edward suffers every day just to be around her. It gives her enormous new respect for his struggle.

Actually getting herself _onto_ the ladder will be the tricky part. There's nothing by the door to offer a handhold, so she'll have to grab the top rung of the ladder and sort of _slide_ her body out behind, letting it flop down. It'll look ridiculous, but who's here to see? It will also be easiest, she thinks, if she grips beneath the ladder so her body hangs as she makes her descent. Trying to slide down along the top would be more dangerous.

Getting a firm hold on the top rung, she takes a deep breath and mutters, "Here goes nothing," then pulls hard. Nothing happens. She can't get enough leverage this way to drag the dead weight of her lower body out of the building. Whether she likes it or not, she'll have to make her way down along the ladder's slightly canted top. Gripping the next rung then, she pulls herself further, then finds the third, then the fourth beyond that.

It's at the fourth rung when it happens. The balance of her weight outside the door versus her weight inside hits the tipping point and like a slinky, her body flops backwards over her head. She's ready, knowing it'll happen. Her grip is tight. But what she didn't expect was the sheer force of her own weight against her tired arms and the wrenching twist on her shoulders. It's enough all together to yank her grip free.

She falls. It's not controlled, or neat. And there is a half rotted log at the base of the ladder on the right, no doubt put there for a hunter to sit on.

She hits the ground and log with splintering force and hears things inside her break -- feels a terrible pain all up and down her right side. For long, long minutes, she can't even move from the sheer shock of the impact. This is three times worse than anything Brady did. Her head swims and her eyesight dims. She barely holds onto consciousness.

She wonders if she's bleeding, and if so, how much? Will that help Edward and the others find her easier if they can smell her blood?

She really needs to get to the stream. If she's bleeding -- and she's fairly certain she is -- she needs water even more than she already did. Finally managing to roll herself over, she whimpers and cries at the lancing streak of agony inside her. She's done something very bad to herself. Tilting her chin down, she can also see that at least one leg is broken -- and not only broken, the shin bone has actually ripped through the skin.

Her eyes snap shut and she feels the bile rise. It's been a while since just the scent of blood made her nauseous, but this is extreme. How long can she possibly live, bleeding like this?

"Okay," she whispers to herself. "So that was about the stupidest thing you could've tried, Bella." But it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe she should have stopped with just opening the door to let her scent flow better.

Done is done, though -- and she's not dead yet.

Slowly, by inches, she pulls herself along. She can feel dirt and grass grind into her but the high-growing field turf gives her something to grip. Pulling herself up on her arms hurts too much, and she's having trouble breathing. There's also blood coming out her mouth. She spits it into the dirt. Not good. Not good at all. She's dizzy and her eyesight comes and goes.

She's only about halfway to the stream when her vision darkens entirely and she collapses. She tries to cling to consciousness, but just can't. She's cold, and the dark is warm. She just needs to rest a moment, then she'll go on.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, here's the deal. I know that's both a short part AND a bad place to leave you. It's a little after 6:30pm my time. I'm about to go and read through the next section (which is much longer), then I will post that when it's ready. It may take several hours, but I WILL post it later tonight (although that may be early morning for the U.S. east coast). That gives a little break, but not a long wait. Also, I'm back to just replying to questions in reviews. Also, for some reason, Gmail was looking me out of my mail for several days -- right when I actually HAD a couple days to reply to more reviews than I have been recently! Because of how FF-net handles their reviews, it meant I couldn't answer them (except by accidental PMs), although I did reply at for Twilighted and on my LJ. I got back into my mail this morning, so I'll be replying to questions and such -- but not until I have this next chapter ready! So expect some delays if you asked me a question.


	64. Chapter 64

**Part Summary:** Alice gives directions, Rose is at the sheriff's office ... and Bella is found.

Some possibly stomach-turning description. And while I did look things up as per usual, I have no handy doctor-in-pocket and make no promises this is entirely accurate. Last, once again, a 2-POV section!

* * *

Alice is frustrated. No future will stay probable long, no doubt because Brady Jones keeps changing his mind. Yet some things she'd most feared are coming to pass. That idiot doctor in Atlanta saw his opportunity to hurt Edward's reputation and leapt at it. Although his insinuations will quickly be put to rest, there's still a chance -- even a fair chance -- the broadcast will be brought to the attention of the Volturi. She also knows now that her vision of a dying Bella is certain. The question is whether they can reach her before it's too late to offer her the alternative. Alice heads for the shelter and they'll go from there. She calls Rose at the sheriff's office to alert her to the broadcast, then sends her on the way. When she arrives at the shelter, she pulls in beside Emmett's jeep, hopping out and hurrying to the porch, sun be damned. This will be a tricky conversation in a house full of curious but nervous human women.

Edward opens the door before she even reaches the porch. "I can find it," he says, voice low. Alice had sent him here to read Hannah's mind -- and to drop off Jasper.

"You, Emmett, Jacob and Carlisle need to go. Leave Jasper here with me."

"It's happening, isn't it?" But his word's aren't really a question. He can see in her mind the visions she had at the shop, although with Jacob here, more current visions are blinded.

"You have to reach her before." Before she bleeds to death is what she doesn't say. Edward is already moving for the jeep, Emmett on his heels with Jacob. "Wait for Carlisle," she tells them, speaking at vampire speed. "And whatever you do, Edward -- don't go by the station. The media are there and want to interview you -- get the other side, so they say, but they'll try to nail you. Also Sheriff Wynn wants to question you again. He won't issue an arrest warrant -- yet -- but if you go there, he'll detain you and if you refuse, you'll look guilty. The video will clear you, so just avoid it and things will work out. Rose will meet you south of Batesville at a scenic overlook." What she doesn't add but Edward can see is that -- if the media interview him -- the Volturi will be certain a vampire is involved and will come. As long as it's just a picture of Edward from his hospital ID, there's still a chance to avoid that future.

Edward, Emmett, Jacob and now Carlisle are in the jeep ripping out of the drive and speeding on their way. Alice joins Esme, Martha and Jasper inside the shelter. "I'm glad you're here," Esme says, hugging her. "Martha and I have to go to the station." Alice already knows of course, but the _women in the shelter_ have no idea what Alice can do. "We have new evidence."

Alice nods, adding under her breath, "Take Hannah. It'll save time. But let her or Martha talk to FOX news if they ask -- not you. Martha is better."

With a sharp nod, Esme turns then to Hannah. "Since Alice is here, can you come? Alice can watch over your girls."

Hannah considers, then shrugs and says, "Sure. Let me get my purse."

Jasper is already heading up the stairs. "I'll get it for you, and let your daughters know to come down." The women here, Alice thinks, have become surprisingly comfortable with the men of their family, vampires or not. When they'd first started the shelter, they wouldn't have dreamed of letting one of the men upstairs, even Edward.

Now, Alice speaks sotto-voce to Esme while they wait for Jasper. "Chances are good that Bella won't make it out of this, at least not as a human. When you get to the station, prepare Charlie as best you can, and forewarn Martha."

"Charlie's not out looking?"

"No, they're keeping him there. It lets him be involved but Chief Wynn doesn't want him near Brady. The brotherhood of cops. They'll support him, but they'll also keep him out of a situation where he might get himself into trouble. He knows what they're doing and he's frustrated, but he'd do the same if positions were reversed. We'll find Bella -- one way or the other -- before Brady schedules the money drop, so it'll be easy to arrest him."

"But if Bella . . . well, if we do find her in time, but have to change her, how will -- "

"Rose will take care of it. Just be sure that Hannah tells Charlie and the rest there about the Batesville connection -- do that and Brady will go to prison for a long, long time."

Jasper is back with Hannah's purse and Esme leads the two human women out to her car, then makes a beeline for the sheriff's office with Brady's video and a witness who can definitively clear Edward's name of any suspicion.

* * *

Rose is alerted by Alice before Fox runs their interview with Chip Clayton. The TV is on in the station room mostly as background noise -- fortunately (or unfortunately for what it says about news discernment in White County) to the right station. But when the announcer says, "And now breaking news -- we have an exclusive interview with a doctor about the missing-person's case in White County involving women's shelter worker, Isabella Jackson," every cop left in the office (which is to say two, plus Charlie and the dispatch operator) turns toward the TV. Then they gather round to listen. It's completely quiet except for the occasional background chatter of officers coming through the scanner radio.

When the interview is over, the dispatch operator says, "You know, I thought that Masen was sort of suspicious . . . "

"I'd bet my next paycheck it's Jones, not the husband," says ones of the uniformed officers.

Nervous, Rose throws a glance at Irene, then watches Charlie, who's glaring at the TV screen. "Who is this jackass?" he asks finally. "I hate it when the media starts letting every tom, dick and harry spout their theories on the airwaves when they don't have all the evidence. That's not news, it's goddamn gossip."

He turns away. "Have the boys who went over to the Jones residence called in again?"

"Brady's still a no-show there, chief," the dispatch officer says. As the sheriff is out in the field, the others are giving Charlie their respect since he's a thirty-year veteran, even if not from Georgia. "Do you, ah, do you want me to contact the hospital that doctor works at? Set up an interview with him?"

"No." Charlie's reply is short, then he softens it. "At least not yet. Let's follow the leads we've got. We know where Masen is. We can haul him in later if we get any evidence against him. Right now, he's a possible suspect, but not very high on our list."

The uniformed cops seem satisfied with that, so the dispatch officer doesn't argue. Before Rose can ponder Charlie's unexpected support of Edward -- considering -- her phone rings. It's Alice. "Head to Batesville. Wait for Emmett's jeep on 255 at a scenic overlook not far before you hit the town. The sun will still be shining so be careful. And don't let Charlie know where you're going exactly."

"She's in Batesville?" Rose whispers too low and fast to be overheard.

"We think so. Hannah had a hunch and I've sent Edward to fish it out of her mind. He'll know where to go. Esme and Martha, and Hannah, will be at the station soon with evidence that'll clear Edward, so don't worry about that."

"Who'll be at the shelter? What if Brady decides -- "

"He doesn't know where it is, and Jasper and I will be here anyway. When they find Bella . . . Rose, it won't be pretty. Somebody needs to know -- right now, chances are good she'll already be dead. If she isn't, it'll be too late to get her to a hospital even with a Medivac chopper and Carlisle to tend her. You'll have to turn her if you're not too late." Alice pauses then adds, "It's what she wanted."

Rose closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Subconsciously, she's been preparing herself for this eventuality ever since Bella disappeared. She doesn't want to do it but knows that, as Alice said, it would be Bella's choice -- and she'll honor Bella's choice even if she has to fight Edward to do so. She doesn't think she'll have to, though. She suspects that, when push comes to shove, Edward won't be able to let Bella go.

"So I should start thinking of ways to cover for a missing body?" she asks, although again too softly for anyone to hear.

"Exactly. How many cops are out looking and where are they right now?"

"The bulk are local but the surrounding counties have sent help with dogs. They're running a dragnet from Helen north through Chattahoochee."

"I'll be sure to have Hannah mention the Batesville connection so they home in there."

Rose hangs up and approaches Charlie, who's getting more coffee. "If you don't stop inhaling that," she tells him in a soft voice, "you'll be bouncing off the walls."

His smile is barely there. "I'll take that under advisement. Who was on the phone?"

"Alice." They speak softly. "Esme, Martha and Hannah are on their way to the station with new evidence, and also, apparently, a new area for the searchers to tackle."

His gaze is locked on her face instantly. "Where?"

"Batesville. But you can't say anything yet; they'll wonder how you know, and it won't be long before they're here. We've all been looking in the wrong places. I'm leaving now to join the rest of the family headed there."

His dark eyes are fierce. "Find her, Rose."

"We will, chief." _How_ they'll find her -- in what sort of condition -- she keeps to herself. She gives him a sad smile. "Tell the cops not to stop a speeding Tesla, all right?"

"Nobody's patrolling the roads right now, even the state troopers. Everybody they can spare is looking for Bella. Get there as fast as you can."

Within fifteen minutes, Rose has found the scenic overlook Alice described and sits waiting. Several cars go by but the road isn't busy. Emmett's jeep comes zipping along less than five minutes later and pulls off just long enough for her to put her car in gear and follow. Edward's driving, she can see. He must be following the images he lifted from Hannah's mind.

They've reached a Mom and Pop's diner three minutes later. As Hannah had said, it's near some local stables. The problem is that there are people around and the damn spring sun is still out, yet they need a place to leave Rose's car, which isn't an off-road vehicle. She can hear Edward curse as they pull into the parking lot. Turning off her car before Edward's mouth gets really dirty, she's out her door too fast for the humans to see, hopping in the jeep's back seat with Carlisle and Jacob. "God, he stinks," she says, holding her nose.

"Well, none of you smell any too good to me," the dog replies.

"Enough," Carlisle snaps; even he sounds testy. In the driver's seat, Edward is already backing up the jeep.

"Find a turnoff into a field," Emmett is saying as his phone rings. He answers, listens a moment, then adds, "Alice says there's a farmer's tractor access just up the road. Turn there. She can see Bella. She's in a field. She got out of the building she was held in and crawled near a stream that's oriented northwest-southeast."

He's hung up and is already checking his GPS. "Couple'a streams in the area, but only two really run that direction. We'll split up if we need to."

Edward has already found the tractor access and is off the highway, roaring along the edge of a soybean crop. He finds a strand of pine to park the jeep under and yanks his door open . . .

Even Rose can smell it -- human blood. Bella's.

Edward is gone, Jacob at his heels. The jeep's still running. "Catch them," Carlisle tells her.

Rose is second-fastest after Edward. She's out like a bullet, following the sound of Edward and Jacob more than their scent. Edward barely bothers to dodge the trees instead of mow them down; the soybeans aren't so lucky. Behind her, she knows Carlisle and Emmett are coming a few seconds behind.

Their race isn't long. They pass through a field, into brief forest, behind cabins, over pastures and down horse trails, all bearing generally southwest towards Chatahoochee National Forest. Less than a minute after they've left the vehicle, they've all reached the field. Rose can smell death in the air, not just blood, and her heart would stop if it hadn't already ninety years ago. Edward has fallen to his knees in the middle of the field and lets out a cry of anguish. Vultures leap into the sky like an explosion of black.

She's at his side an instant later where he's flung himself down beside Bella, stretched out on her stomach in the dirt and grass. The deer blind is visible on the forest edge and her path from it is clear, if a little meandering. She pulled herself out of that building almost 200 yards along the ground before collapsing. Now, she's covered in filth and bugs, her hair a tangled dirty mess, her gray shirt black with blood all along one side, her jeans ripped from a broken bone that's still poking through. Rose has seen a lot, but this is truly gruesome.

Worst, her heart isn't beating.

Rose hits the dirt beside Edward; a sob choking her. Jacob, in wolf form, is dashing back and forth, yelping as if he'd been shot. Emmett lets out a bellow like an angry bull.

Only Carlisle keeps his head. He pushes through them all, heedless of even Edward's anger. Rolling Bella over, he's got out his stethoscope from the backpack he's brought and he's listening at her chest. Then he starts CPR. "Breathe for her, Edward!" he practically snarls.

"She's _dead_," Edward yells back.

"We don't know for how long! Her body's still warm! Standard ER protocol for a code!"

That snaps Edward out of it and he blurs into motion. Rose feels Emmett pull her to her feet, away from the two doctors working. Emmett's arms are strong around her and she grips his forearms, giving and taking comfort. He's sobbing; great tearless hiccups. Jacob has come over as well, pressing his furry side against them. Emmett absently pats him. "If anybody can save her . . . " Rose says. Carlisle is their only hope.

"Rose!" he barks. "We need you. I'm keeping her heart going and Edward's putting oxygen into her, but we've got one chance right now. She's not clinically dead yet. If we can get venom into her and spreading, I think the Change might take over."

He looks over his shoulder. "Can you bite her and stop yourself from drinking?"

Snarling in objection, Jacob leaps between Rose and the doctors working over Bella. "It's what she wanted," Rose snaps at him.

Abruptly he's back in human form -- stark naked but she could care less. "She's dead! Let her rest in peace, damnit!"

Rose would throw him aside, but it's Emmett who shows the level head and comes to lay a hand on Jacob's shoulder. "Rose isn't lying," he says. "She didn't want to change -- but she also said she's not ready yet to die. I heard her with my own ears. She's got no chance but this. Do you really want to go back to Charlie and tell him you made us let her die?"

The snarl in Jacob's chest gets momentarily louder, then disappears completely and he turns, stalking out across the field -- his back to them. It's surrender.

Rose is beside Bella in an instant. She can smell what's left of her blood being pushed sluggishly through her veins along with the rise and fall of her lungs. There's a hiss. "A lung is punctured," she says.

"I know," Carlisle replies. "I'm not sure there's even enough blood left in her for this to work, but we've got to get the venom spreading, then I'll have you transfuse."

He'd brought blood? Alice must have forewarned him of more than she'd told Rose.

"Hurry," Edward tells her between breaths. Rose is relieved she won't have to fight him.

Holding her hair back, Rose bends to bite Bella on her neck. Blood gushes into her mouth and it's . . . _heaven_. Pure heaven. Never in her life has Rose so much as tasted human blood and she never expected it to be like _this_. Instinct takes over and she _gulps_ it. Nothing had prepared her . . .

Strong arms rip her away and she snarls, struggling to get back to her gourmet meal. But the arms are like a vise. "No, Rose! It's Bella!"

Sanity returns in a rush like cold water splashing down. She sobs, convulsing and spitting, trying to get the taste of human blood out of her mouth. "I wanted . . . I almost . . . "

"No time for that!" Carlisle snaps, and his ER manner saves her from Weltschmerz. "Get those bags of blood in her." Rose hurries to obey, Emmett helping as she pulls out the soft-sided mini-cooler from Carlisle's backpack and rips the top off. Two liters of blood are nestled inside. Emmett is handing her the line and needles as she fits it all together; then she's at Bella's arm, inserting the IV to pump enough back into her to spread the venom that will save her.

Carlisle continues to act as her heartbeat as Edward breathes for her. At some point, Jacob has walked back over to watch. Perhaps four minutes after they began -- a very long four minutes -- Carlisle announces, "I've got an independent heartbeat! Intubate her, Edward. I've got a small unit of oxygen in the bag." Rose fetches it while Edward works the tube into her mouth, past her larynx and down her trachea into her lungs.

"Why are you saving her only to kill her?" Jacob asks. His voice is bitter. "If you could do this for her in the first place, why'd you have to _bite_ her?"

"This is a stop-gap measure," Carlisle explains, voice even. "She needs a Level 1 trauma center, which would require a Medivac helicopter and take perhaps an hour total getting here and back. She'd be dead by then. As Rosalie said, her lung is punctured and I'm fairly sure her liver's torn too. Even if we could get her to an operating room right now, I'm not sure we could suture it fast enough. That's what caused most of the blood loss. If not a guarantor of death, it's very hard to repair. Right now, the blood we're putting in her has one purpose -- to spread the venom -- and we're helping her breathe to keep her brain oxygenated."

Interestingly, this seems to satisfy Jacob, who just looks down at her, then kneels across from Edward and leans in to sniff at her neck where Rose bit her. "I can already smell the venom." He looks over at Edward, who's finished getting the tube in her and is now holding her head in his lap, fingers in her hair, trying (vainly) to untangle the grass and sticks. If he doesn't look quite as devastated as he had at first, his face is still stricken and he's struggling not to snarl in pure rage. "You're going to take care of her?" Jacob asks him.

The look Edward gives Jacob is incredulous. "What kind of idiotic question is that?"

"I've known her longer than you," Jacob shoots back. "And I'm going to have to go back there and explain to her dad -- and mine -- that I let all of you turn her into a monster."

Edward's eyes are black with rage, but also with despair. "Do you think, for one minute, that I wanted this any more than you did? I'd have stayed beside her till she was old and gray, then followed her into the grave."

"But you couldn't let her go today," Jacob concludes. He sounds disgusted.

"No," Emmett replies, "_she_ couldn't let _him_ go today. I told you this is what she wanted. We asked, Jake. We asked back when it was just one of Alice's vague visions." Jacob looks over his shoulder at Emmett. His eyes are still angry, and hurt, and vaguely disbelieving. "Could you let Irene go today?" Emmett asks him. "If it were her lying here on the ground -- or one of your babies -- and we could save her, what would you do?" Something in the wolf boy's eyes alter. It's understanding. Emmett only nods.

"Now comes the unpleasant part," Rose says. "We have to figure out how to explain a missing body. Alice says Hannah will be giving the police information that'll send them in this direction -- and soon. With dogs."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, that's it for now. More sometime Sunday (early or midday, not sure yet). It's late even for me!


	65. Chapter 65

**Part Summary:** Will she make it? And if she does, will she walk? (Some possibly stomach-turning description, but I don't think it's very bad.)

**Special Note:** Some general Rah-Rah for my reviewers. **Guys, you're AWESOME.** Even when I don't have time to reply to everybody you still just keep the reviews coming and give me so much love and encouragement. I can't thank you enough for all your sweet words and patience. Some of you review every single chapter, and even write long stuff. I recognize your names and have come to think of you as friends. Truly, you're gems. When I first began this story, I had no idea I'd get such a response. I'm slayed. This story now has over 4000 reviews. I know some of that is because it has 60+ parts! But still. I'm just flabbergasted.

There are only two more parts after this + epilogue. It's hard to believe I've been at this a year. The first chapter was published here on August 26th of 2008, so I guess it's appropriate that it's finishing up about the same time. I may aim to post the epilogue on that same date, if I can. Thank you for all your wonderful support. *high fives and fist-bumps everybody*

Part 65 is one of the longest parts in the entire story, so enjoy.

* * *

Ever since Alice first admitted her vision to Edward, he's been planning for a worst-case scenario and to him, 'worst-case' means the necessity of turning Bella. He wasn't lying to Jacob Black when he'd said this wasn't what he'd wanted.

But he's ready.

Buying the medical incubator had been expensive, if hardly outside his budget. It's kept at 98 degrees Fahrenheit, the same as the human body, and stored in the basement of Emmett and Rose's place. Inside is one precious test tube filled with antibiotic solution and embryonic stem cells. He'd wanted to have two but his conscience wouldn't let him. The second would've been mere back-up, and one less for research elsewhere. Stealing even this one twinges -- but it doesn't twinge enough. Nevertheless, it means he has exactly one chance to make this transplant work.

He already triggered the cells to become nerve precursors; such a change doesn't happen instantly. Now, he and Carlisle, with Rose to assist, will transplant them into Bella's spinal cord. They have to do it fast before the Change alters her too far. Carlisle's prepared a table for the operation. It's not sterilized -- nor is the room -- but right now, that's irrelevant. If she lives, infection won't be an issue. If she dies, it won't matter. She's still getting oxygen and even a final pint of blood. Rose bit her exactly 26 minutes ago, but so far, the venom's not spread much into the tissues. Edward is working against the clock. They have to get these new cells in place before the venom can reach the damaged neurons or he fears they'll be ossified in whatever their state at the time -- that is, dead. At least not having to bother scrubbing down or anaesthetizing the patient speeds things up considerably. Bella is in a coma. While Edward readies the cells for insertion, Carlisle and Rose stretch her out on her stomach, covered by sheets except the area of her lower back. Carlisle performs the incision at her T-12 vertebra so Edward can effect the transplant of minute, proto-nerve cells. Rose keeps the blood and oxygen flowing.

They're done in less than five minutes, including closing the wound. The latter isn't strictly necessary, but Bella's lost blood enough as it is. Carlisle grips Edward's shoulder. "Now," he says, "we pray."

"You pray," Rose tells them, rolling Bella over carefully and lifting her in her arms. "I'm going to clean her up -- shave and pluck things before it's impossible to do so. I'll call you when she's ready."

They nod, then Carlisle turns to Edward. "Do you need a minute by yourself, or do you want me to stay with you?"

"A minute alone," Edward manages and Carlisle nods, patting his shoulder once before departing to clean up, leaving Edward in the basement with its empty table and medical equipment discarded like outgrown toys in an attic. He grips the table and closes his eyes.

Carlisle had said, 'Now we pray' more metaphorically than literally, although Edward is quite certain Carlisle _will_ pray. Even a week ago, Edward wouldn't have bothered, yet Martha's admonishment to him is fresh in his mind. 'God always listens,' she'd told him. So now he does something he hasn't done in decades. He prays. "Our Father," he whispers, eyes still squeezed shut, "your Son said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' Bella's offered mercy and shelter to others who needed it. Let her receive it in turn. Let her survive this, and heal. There has to be a limit to suffering. I'll do anything if you grant this. Please."

He knows it's begging, bargaining, and still isn't entirely sure God will listen to a vampire, but for Bella, he'll try.

Opening his eyes, he rubs them even though he can't feel tired like a human. Emotionally, he's so wrung, he's numb. Going back upstairs to the room he shares with Bella, he rips off his ruined clothes and hops in the shower. He holds his breath because right now, the scent of her is still strong in the room and makes his dead heart hurt. In the shower, under the streaming hot water, he momentarily loses it and starts to shake uncontrollably. He really hates that he can't cry. He thinks he might feel a little better if he could just _cry_.

Finally turning off the water, he blinks dumbly for a moment through his dripping hair, then dries himself and puts on fresh clothes to leave the room and follow the sound of a TV. He finds Emmett standing in front of it in the den, his beefy arms crossed. He's alone. Jacob already left for the sheriff's office to meet Irene. On the screen, "Breaking News" is announcing the discovery of Bella's "probable prison." The camera shows the field they left not long ago. It's late afternoon. Cops, dogs and emergency personnel are all over the place, curious onlookers held at bay while the professionals search the little stream and its banks.

The camera switches to a man in a tan shirt and black tie with a gold badge and sheriff's hat. "We're not confirming any reports that we've found a body." His drawl is pronounced. "I'd like to remind everybody this is an ongoing investigation. We _can_ say we've arrested one person in conjunction with the abduction of Isabella Jackson -- Brady Jones of Helen Georgia -- " the screen flashes to a mug-shot of Jones. "And we have every reason to believe we've located the place Mrs. Jackson was being held. I also want to emphasize this is _still_ a search and rescue operation, not a recovery. We can't give out further information at this time. We will as soon as we have it confirmed to give. Anybody with tips about this case should contact the White County Sheriff's Office. Not FOX news."

Emmett pumps the air with his fist, saying, "Score!" even as Carlisle enters the den. Edward ignores Emmett's comment. Right now, Chip Clayton's idiotic interview is the least of his worries. He'll take care of Clayton later.

"So the husband of Mrs. Jackson, er, Mrs. Masen, is no longer a suspect?" the reporter asks, apparently unfazed by the not-so-subtle rebuke from the sheriff.

"Like I _said_" -- the emphasis is heavy -- "this is an ongoing investigation. We're still interviewing people, but Dr. Masen was never more than a person of interest." The sheriff's expression is pure distaste. "While we keep all possibilities open, we do try to work with the facts, not unsubstantiated allegations." He's glaring hard at the invisible person behind the mic. "But again, this is _an ongoing investigation_ and we're not finished yet. Thank you."

He turns and walks away -- apparently before the reporter was done -- but the reporter recovers quickly, saying, "That was Sheriff Karl Wynn -- "

Emmett shuts off the television and turns. "I don't know if they'll buy what we did," he says.

"It was the best we could do in the limited time," Carlisle says.

"Well yeah, but animals don't normally devour even the bones. There'd be remains."

"There were some -- "

"A gnawed foot, blood and entrails, Jake's paw-prints and her clothes . . . that's not enough. We didn't leave _bones_."

Edward shudders and turns away. He knows it was necessary but they'd made him go off while they'd further damaged Bella's broken body. "It's the only way," Emmett had said. In the past, bodies could just disappear, but times have changed. Crime-scene science it too good and they want this case closed as much as it can be, so they'd needed to leave more than blood and clothes. As gruesome as it might be, they know from experience any new injuries will repair themselves. It's the dead cells in her spinal cord that present questions.

That doesn't mean Edward has to like the idea of what they did to her.

"We need to go to the sheriff's office," Carlisle is saying. "With these reports coming in, we have to show our faces."

"They have Brady," Edward replies, feeling stubborn. "I want to stay with Bella, and I'm not giving a statement to the damned press. Alice told me not to."

Outside, they hear a car drive up and all head for the front door. Carlisle opens it. "Esme," he says, then moves back. "Martha . . . Charlie."

Edward tenses again. Charlie's face is stark. Martha's eyes are red. Charlie stares right at Edward. "Tell me she's -- "

" -- undergoing the Change," Edward says, swallowing, unsure how Charlie will receive that news.

But Charlie Swan's shoulders slump as he leans up against the wall near the door. Edward can read the relief in his mind, not just his posture. "Thank God," he says even as Martha hugs him and Esme hugs Carlisle. "Thank God."

"You're _glad_?" Edward is incredulous. "Your daughter's becoming a vampire!"

Charlie straightens and runs a hand over his face. He looks ten years older than he had just that morning. "My daughter is alive. Or at least, she's not dead. When the report came in that they'd found remains . . . "

Edward understands. He glances at Esme. "We didn't know," she said. "I thought reports of remains -- not a body -- might mean you'd reached her in time, so we hoped . . . We drove straight here."

"What'd you tell the police?" Carlisle asks.

"That her family needed to grieve in private. Nobody questioned that. They're not making it official yet, but given the amount of blood they found, and . . . the rest of it . . . they're saying privately that Bella's likely dead from an animal attack. They're running DNA tests to confirm identity, but they arrested Brady immediately after he called a second time to arrange the ransom drop. He essentially spilled everything in an attempt to escape a murder charge."

"The little punk had no idea how the hell to arrange a payoff," Charlie snarls. Edward can see in his mind all the pent-up rage. It echoes his own. "Stupid ass was still using Bella's cell phone and calling from that same Krogers' parking lot. We had it pinpointed in minutes and they went to pick him up. He had no idea Bella was . . . well, whatever. He didn't know. He confessed to everything hoping he'll get only manslaughter."

"_Manslaughter_?" Edward all but shouts.

Charlie holds up a hand. "He'll get third-degree murder almost certainly. With the previous assault charges and kidnaping, he'll go to prison for life, although since he's cooperating, he might escape the death penalty. Still, he wasn't promised anything and started babbling as soon as they slammed on the cuffs, Miranda rights not withstanding -- or so I heard. They wouldn't let me get near him." Charlie snorts. "The kid's an idiot." Edward thinks that, if Charlie had been there, Brady might not have walked away breathing. Edward knows if _he'd_ been there, Brady certainly wouldn't have walked away breathing.

"He lost his chance to plea bargain," Rose says, descending the stairs from where she'd taken Bella up to her own big bathroom (even if she rarely uses it for more than makeup application). "He's going to get life and no parole by the time I'm done with him. And Bella's cleaned up now."

So is Rose. She's changed out of the bloody suit she'd had on when they'd returned and is wearing a new one along with tinted glasses to hide the orangey eyes that reveal the taint of human blood. Charlie and Martha look up at her. Both their faces are hopeful. "Can we see her?" Martha asks.

Rose glances to Carlisle. "Certainly," Carlisle says. "At this point, it's safe. But be advised -- she won't look good. Any and all injuries present at the time of her human 'death,' however, will be healed in the Change, so don't be alarmed."

"Will she walk?" Martha asks.

The million-dollar question. Carlisle looks to Edward, who clears his throat. "We hope so. We, ah, transplanted stem cells into her spinal column at the point of the break where the dead cells were located. We're hoping they replace the dead cells in her transformation."

"But you can't be sure," Martha concludes.

"No. We can't be sure."

"Let's go up," Carlisle says, gesturing towards the stairs.

Edward speeds past him to the top landing and glances back even as Rose picks up her purse and opens the front door. "I'm going to the sheriff's office," she says. "Then I'll drop by the shelter." Even eighty years after Emmett's transformation, she can't bear to be present while another suffers. Edward would like to resent her, but can't. She loves Bella, and it's her venom in Bella's veins, saving her. But he understands finally that Rose can't stand it _because_ she feels it too much. She's not a cold fish at all. Just the opposite.

Edward is already in the room where Bella is laid out across Emmett and Rose's bed. He can hear the conversation of the others as he pulls up a chair to sit down, reaching for her hand.

"Irene's kids are at the shelter with Alice and Jasper and the rest," Esme says. "Hannah went back there too; an officer drove her after she'd given her statement. Bella's mother and step-father are at the sheriff's office. It's horrible. They don't know the truth and Renee is in shambles."

"Can we -- " Charlie begins, but Martha squeezes his arm.

"We'll figure out what to tell Renee later. Let's go see our girl."

Bella's hand in Edward's is already hot from the venom fever but she's not reacting otherwise. She's too deeply unconscious to feel the pain, and not in pain enough for it to slice through her coma. Her mutilated body has been covered by blankets and both the breathing tube and IV have been removed. The venom has spread to the point human medical aids are no longer necessary and perhaps even dangerous. There's nothing more they can do now. Either the Change will take or it won't. The idea that it might not rips at him.

He studies Bella's face. Rose did a good job. All the dirt and mess is gone from what skin he can see and when he reaches under the blankets, he finds her legs smooth, the broken bones reset and the torn skin fixed and stitched, although most of that Carlisle had done in the car on the way back. Her hair is still a little dirty, if not as filthy, but there's little sense in washing it now. She'll sweat it greasy again. The essential fixes have been effected, things that would be difficult to alter later. Rose _would_ think of those things.

Bella twitches once and sighs as Carlisle and Esme lead in Charlie and Martha. Charlie's at Bella's side instantly. "Is she in pain?" he demands.

"It's a painful process -- " Carlisle begins but Charlie interrupts him.

"You're a doctor! And you too!" He turns angry brown eyes -- eyes so like Bella's -- on Edward. "Make it stop hurting."

"We can't," Carlisle explains, "although right now, Bella's in a coma, which saves her from feeling much." He doesn't point out that the fact she was twitching at all is testimony to the violence of the venom's fire. Comatose patients don't respond to pain. Martha goes into Rose's bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth. Bending, she wipes the sweat from Bella's face. Edward understands her need to do something and doesn't have the heart to tell her it doesn't help. "We tried morphine when Emmett was changed," Carlisle says. "It just made it worse."

"Trust me," Emmett speaks from the doorway. "Bella'd rather not have that. It took me four days to change instead of three because the morphine slowed everything down."

"She'll have three days of this?" Charlie nearly shouts.

"Yes," Edward cuts him off. "Then she'll never hurt again." He doesn't add, 'unless it's at the hand of another vampire.' Charlie doesn't need to know that. "She'll never get sick, she won't be vulnerable to any human weapon or accident. She'll be impervious -- like stone."

"This 'Change' is altering her whole body?" Martha asks, voice calmer than Charlie's.

"Exactly. That's why it's so painful. The, ah, venom essentially remakes the body from her DNA up. Heals it, perfects it, but also petrifies it."

"'Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things are passed away; behold, new things have come,'" Martha mutters softly.

Edward wouldn't put it that way, but he's not going to deny her whatever comfort she takes.

"Can we stay with her?" Charlie asks. "I want to be here when she wakes."

"That won't be possible," Carlisle says gently, one hand on Charlie's shoulder. Edward hears the door open downstairs and then human voices. Jacob and Irene are back, and their kids. Charlie is glaring at Carlisle even as Esme goes down to meet the family. "You're welcome to stay for at least this first evening, but after that, it'll be too dangerous. In fact, we'll be taking Bella away when it's over. She needs to spend her first year or two apart from humans.

"There is, you see, an incredible compulsion for newborn vampires to drink human blood. It's hard to explain unless you've ever been incredibly thirsty or starving and had a feast spread before you. Instinct takes over. Even a human in that position would eat or drink till sick. A vampire's instincts are almost twice as strong. If you or Martha were here when Bella wakes, she'd kill you without being able to stop herself, then never get over the guilt. You do _her_ a favor by not making yourselves vulnerable."

Both Charlie and Martha appear shaken although Edward knows Alice already explained at least some of these truths about vampires to Martha earlier. Carlisle's somberness is driving it home. In the doorway behind, Jacob and Irene have both appeared, but they don't try to shoulder in on Charlie or Martha. Or Edward.

"We'll protect Bella in that first year," Carlisle assures them. "That's the most critical period. With time, she'll be able to be around humans again, and able to visit you both safely -- although the fiction of her death has to remain. We'll construct a new identity for her. But you'll be able to talk to her on the phone, exchange email, arrange video conferences if you like. It just won't be safe for you to be in the same room with her."

"Or even in the same five-mile radius," Emmett adds. Everybody glares at him, even the wolves. "What?" he says. "It's the truth."

"I'd rather know the full truth," Charlie agrees. He leans over to stroke Bella's hair. Edward gives both he and Martha space. He'll have Bella to himself shortly. This is their last goodbye, at least for the near future. He can see the turmoil in their minds, the mixture of relief and regret, and he's struck by how willing Charlie is to give her up in order to see her survive, even in this altered form. That's what parents do, he reflects, and for the first time, thinks he might understand his mother's last request to Carlisle. It didn't matter if she died as long as he didn't. Likewise, he can see in Charlie's mind that he doesn't care if he never sees Bella again, as long as he knows she's alive in some form, and happy.

Deeply moved, Edward says, "As soon as we're able, we'll come to visit."

"She's not going to get her degree," Irene says from the door behind them.

"Not this one," Edward agrees, not understanding why it's especially important right now. Bella will have years -- decades, maybe centuries -- to collect all the degrees she wants.

"It meant a lot to her," Irene explains. "Something she did for herself. She worked real hard -- took out a lot of loans. It doesn't seem fair."

"Mark didn't get his either," Martha says softly. "Life doesn't always end the way we expect, but there are unexpected blessings." Her words are meant to be soothing but even if he's not as good as Jasper, Edward can sense the mixed emotions in her. He'd been more focused on Charlie, but now probes her and can see how torn she is. As a pastor, she's learned to appear calm, but inside, the mother is weeping. Bella will survive, but her son didn't have that chance. She loves Bella. She doesn't want to be envious, but is all the same. Edward can't blame her. It's a very human thing -- even a vampire thing. However collected and mature she must appear, she still grieves for Mark and always will to some degree. He knows that all these decades later, Esme still grieves for her dead son. Sorrow doesn't respond to logic.

"I'll be leaving my residency too," he says now. "I'll stay with Bella. I think my supervisors will understand even if they may not approve. I've lost my wife -- at least publicly."

"They might _not_ understand," Charlie warns. "People lose spouses all the time. Death, divorce . . . most of us get up and go back to work. We have bills to pay." Edward thinks this is more than just an observation. It's also a rebuke. Charlie is still trying to figure out how far he can forgive Edward, and now, clears his throat. "Can you support her if you don't have a job?"

All the vampires chuckle at that. "Chief Swan," Edward says, "I could buy her the entire town of Helen if she wanted it. Funds aren't a problem."

"We've lived a long time," Esme explains at Charlie's shocked expression. "And with Alice's gift, we're able to invest well. We also don't require some of the expenditures humans accrue -- no grocery bills, no medical bills, minimal heating and electricity. We all have jobs because otherwise, we'd be bored, but we don't actually need them. As Edward's wife, Bella will be well-provided for." Both Charlie and Martha seem satisfied by that and don't inquire into just how well provided for, which is probably a good thing. Edward doesn't want to go into all the various Cullen accounts.

Silence descends for a bit. Bella's restlessness is increasing in increments, but she's not truly suffering yet and Edward is glad her body's natural defenses sent her deep into unconsciousness before the venom was injected. It won't last, but if it spares her for even a short while, that's something. People come and go in the room, but Edward, Charlie and Martha remain. The two humans ask quiet questions and, with nothing else to do, Edward explains many things from the intricacies of vampire biology as he understands it to how he became a vampire himself in 1918. Having had more time to think about it and a longer explanation from Alice, Martha must have realized he's a lot older than he looks, but Charlie is shell-shocked. "What the hell did you see in a seventeen-year-old girl, back in Forks? You're older than my _grandparents_!" What he doesn't add, but Edward can hear clearly in his mind, is 'Damn pedophile!'

Edward only shakes his head. "I am, and am not, a hundred and seventeen. When you're like me, age means something different. Parts of me were . . . frozen. I don't know how else to explain it. Emotionally stunted. I was existing, not living. Bella woke those parts. So at one level, I really was a seventeen-year-old boy in love with a seventeen-year-old girl." He looks up and meets Charlie's eyes. "But now you have a better idea why I left back then. I wasn't good for her. Loving her, being with her . . I felt selfish for that. And you're right, she _did_ seem like a child to me sometimes -- but not. I could see . . . I could see this." He touches her face. "What she could become. What she has become. She's so strong -- the bravest person I know -- and has this . . . amazing capacity to believe in people . . . " He brushes her hair back; he knows he sounds like a lovesick fool, but doesn't care. He _is_ a lovesick fool. "She saved me, made me believe I could be a better person. And I wanted her to have a _normal_ life, love a normal man -- grow up, have a family, get old." He leans over abruptly, forehead pressed to Bella's shoulder. "This isn't what I wanted for her." He's shaking again all over.

He feels an arm go around his shoulders and knows it's Martha. She squeezes him tightly and it's been a long time since he was comforted like that. He lets her rock him. She smells of tears and sweat, coffee and some fading floral perfume. She smells like a mother -- a mother brave enough to hug vampires. But he can read in her mind that a vampire isn't what she sees when she looks at him. She just sees Edward. He's a person to her, even if he's not human.

The three of them don't say anything else, just sit with Bella, trying now and then to comfort her, however vainly. Edward knows her pain is getting worse and she's slowly coming out of the coma she'd been in. He should probably talk Charlie and Martha into leaving soon before they see the true horror of the Change, but he hates to take them away from her so soon.

The sun has set when word finally arrives that police forensics have confirmed the human remains found in the field near Bella's prison are, indeed, Bella's. In the absence of a full or even partial body, they can't entirely verify she's dead, but they have enough to say she's presumed dead. "Rescue" turns now to "recovery." There are still questions as to what happened to the rest of the body, but between Brady's own statements and what they found in the field, they believe they can guess and won't look too hard unless the family presses. The family isn't pressing, of course.

Around midnight, an exhausted Charlie and Martha are urged to depart -- go and get some sleep at Esme and Carlisle's. Both have been up well over 24 hours by this point. Martha prays over Bella's unconscious form, which Edward thinks helps Martha more than it helps Bella, but he's not turning down any additional prayers right now.

The rest of that first night is horrible. All the bleeding from her death wounds had ceased just an hour or two after the venom was introduced, and the wounds themselves have slowly knitted, the missing foot already growing back. But the speed of her healing also tracks the speed of the coma's disappearance, so by shortly after midnight, she's entered a half-conscious state of mutters, whimpers and panting. By three, the whimpers become moans, and as the sky begins to lighten, they become full-throated screams. Bella begs for relief, for water, for somebody just to have mercy and kill her . . . She's delusional, still thinking she's in Brady's hands and he's torturing her.

All Edward can do is sit and pull at his hair, unable to bear the horror of her pain, but equally unable to leave. He tries to tell her sometimes how much he loves her, but doubts she can hear. The Change was agony enough to live through, but to watch her suffer is far worse. At one point around mid-morning, he actually crawls onto the bed to hold her in his arms, rocking her and weeping in great tearless, tearing sobs. "I didn't want this, I didn't want this, I didn't want this," he tells her again and again. He wonders if it might not have been better to let her die there in the field, then lay down beside her and cease to be himself -- peace, instead of unrelenting fire. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "Please forgive me for not being strong enough to let you go."

For the rest of the morning, he berates himself for his own selfishness. Once or twice, others come in to remind him that Bella wanted this; he didn't force it on her. The reassurances don't really help, only make him that much guiltier that she would love him enough to go through this hell for him. He thinks he'll probably spend the rest of their existence making it up to her.

By early afternoon, word comes that Bella's 'funeral' has been scheduled, or really, her memorial service. Edward can pick up the details from the minds of the rest, although he remains in the room with Bella. As there's no body, Charlie and Renee will go forward without a casket or urn. Charlie knows the truth. Renee doesn't. It's been deemed dangerous enough that Charlie and Martha were told, and as cruel as it seems, Edward thinks it probably better to keep Renee in the dark. Her reaction is simply too unpredictable, and her ability to keep a secret dubious. "She means well, but doesn't have an off switch on her mouth," as Charlie puts it on the phone to Carlisle.

Not long after, Alice and Rose stage a coup, coming in to insist that Edward let Esme or Emmett sit with Bella for a few hours. "You need to make at least one appearance at the sheriff's office," Alice tells him, "or else." Or else what, she doesn't clarify and Edward wonders if she isn't using her gift as an excuse to pry him away, but he's so strung out, he lets her succeed at it. Even vampires have emotional limits and he's reached his.

They take him to the sheriff's office, where he answers a last few questions and avoids any reporters. The police are solicitous, especially the ones who'd had their doubts about him, but Brady's own confession erased any suspicions and has make Edward the object of gentle pity instead. His distress isn't even an act; he's almost out of his mind with grief and horror. The deputy who'd interviewed him that first evening keeps bringing him little white Styrofoam cups of coffee that he has to find a way to empty unobtrusively. They let him leave the office after just an hour. A few reporters snap pictures as they exit, but Rose is good at shielding him from the public's morbid curiosity.

In the car on the way back, he pulls himself together enough to make a few phone calls to his supervisors in Emory's neurology residency. He's been putting this off because he doesn't want to argue about his decision to leave. He winds up arguing anyway. His chief supervisor keeps insisting work is the best cure for grief and surely he doesn't want to waste all those years of school? Edward thanks him but insists, repeatedly, that his mind is made up. Perhaps he'll return to a residency eventually, but he just can't right now.

That call made, he places another. "Shah," he says, "This is Masen. I want Chip Clayton's cell phone number. I know you have it."

He listens to the pause on the other end and wishes he was there to read the other resident's mind. He picked Ted Shah to contact because he's older than most, married with kids, and doesn't like Clayton. "Uh, well, that may not be necessary," Shah says now. "You know the dickhead got called before a special session of the hospital board, right? Brisner is _pissed_."

"I'm sure he is, because it makes his residency program look bad, but right now, I don't give a shit what he's doing about it. Give me Clayton's phone number."

Another pause, then, "Okay. But don't tell him where you got it."

"Pansy," Edward says, too angry to care about being polite.

"Whatever, man. I have to work with him. It's 404-685-2372. And Edward -- we're sorry. We heard."

Edward pauses, manages only, "Thanks," and hangs up.

Rose, who's driving, warns, "Don't do anything stupid." She glances back at Alice for moral support.

He ignores them both to dial Clayton's number. He knows the other doctor won't have the number stored to tell him who it is, so he won't be afraid to answer. "Clayton here."

"You are an idiot and an _ass_," Edward growls. "And I'm going to see to it that this little indiscretion of yours dogs you for the rest of your goddamn career."

"Who is this?" Clayton sounds half belligerent, half frightened, and Edward wonders if he's had other threatening calls -- hopes he has.

"Edward Masen. And you may get out of this whole thing legally, but you are _fucked_, Clayton." Edward hangs up.

In the backseat, Alice bursts into giggles. "Oh, that's _perfect_!" she says, seeing what he intends.

"I'm glad you approve," he replies, not really amused.

"One of you mind telling _me_?" Rose asks.

Alice leans forward into the space between the two front seats. "Edward is going to make sure every residency Chip Clayton applies to has copies of his FOX interview and the final police report that completely clears Edward's name. Since Clayton never reported the stairwell incident or filed a complaint, it's hearsay. Nobody's going to believe him now. He's going to get question after question about his ethics and his judgement, and turned down over and over again."

"Oh, that's all?" Rose asks. "I was afraid I'd have to deal with an assault charge." She sounds almost cheerful.

Edward snorts. "Slime isn't worth terrorizing; I'll save that for Brady."

"You will not," Alice says. "You'll stay away from Brady Jones, Edward."

"For now," Edward agrees. "With Clayton, I'll ruin what really matters to him -- his career. An eye for an eye." He pauses, adding, "I just hope the Volturi didn't see anything about this. At least it got deep-sixed quickly and they don't know what I look like."

"Edward, to a vampire, you look like a vampire," Rose warns.

Edward only turns to glance at Alice, but she's staring out a window, not replying. "Alice?"

"They're not coming yet."

He doesn't like the 'yet.'

But they're back at the house and Edward's attention is fixed on Bella for the next two days, never again leaving her side. She continues to wail sometimes and thrash in the bed -- including her body _below_ the waist -- but he won't let himself attach too much significance to that. Her reflexes still work there, she just doesn't have conscious control over the muscles.

By dawn of the second full day, she's quieted somewhat, although there are spans of hoarse shrieking along with thrashing and moaning. It's somehow more horrible than the full-on screams and seizures, but the break Alice and Rose had forced on him helps. He's calmer. He tries reading to her, or talking. He repeats, over and over, the most significant things he knows about her life hoping it'll help her remember later. The changes in her are visible now. Not only have all her physical wounds completely closed, there's not even any evidence of them. Her skin is like wax and the sound of her heartbeat is slow but erratic. Her body's giving up the fight against the venom poisoning it -- changing it. Edward tests her skin and can no longer puncture it easily. She's gone cold instead of feverishly hot. By nightfall, she's stopped moving around but shakes and shivers. This lasts all through the night. She has no voice left to cry with. He cries for her, even though he has no tears to shed. "I love you," he tells her over and over like a litany. "You'll make it through this. I'm right here; I'm not leaving you. When all this is over, we'll go off by ourselves for a while, then when you're ready, I'll take you all over the world. We'll travel anywhere you want to go. There's so much to see out there -- so many things I want to show you. Just a little longer, love. Hold on just a little longer."

As that final morning dawns, she's corpse-still. Sunlight slips through the sliding glass door to shine on a marble-white face. Despite having seen three transformations before this one -- not to mention living through his own -- Edward is afraid. He holds her hand, stroking it. He's down to babbling now, a barely coherent monologue.

At six minutes after 9:00 -- almost five hours shy of the assumed 72 -- he hears her heart stutter. It slows gradually, winding down with only intermittent tachycardia. In a human, this would signal the end.

For a vampire, it signals the beginning. He hopes. He rushes downstairs long enough to be certain there are no humans present, just the family. For good or ill, they've let her pass the change here at Rose's, preferring to let her wake in a familiar place. Edward even moved her down to their room that morning.

At 10:02, Bella's heart beats for the final time and she breathes out, not breathing back in.

All of them -- or at least, everyone safe to be there (including Jacob) -- has assembled, waiting. The clock on the mantel ticks. Nobody moves, not even a twitch.

Almost exactly thirteen minutes later, Bella's eyes fly open and she surges up, hands clawing at her throat. "Water!" she croaks.

Yet none of the watchers move -- not to hold her or reassure her or explain it's not water she wants. Shock has frozen them.

Bella is sitting straight up in the bed. Without aid or support.

Bella is _sitting_.

* * *

**A/N:** Again, as I said before, I'm not a doctor, much less a neurologist or stem-cell biologist, but I have looked into this. And yes, resident Edward tries to use more modern speech around his fellow doctors, remember (including casual cursing). Martha's quote is from _II Corinthians_ 5:17, the famous "New Creature in Christ" verse.


	66. Chapter 66

**Part Summary:** Bella Wakes

* * *

She's terribly disoriented. And she's terribly thirsty.

But she doesn't hurt anymore. She can recall the horrid pain from what seems like just moments before. She'd been a sea of anguish in a sky of agony -- unbearable yet impossible to escape. It had gone on and on and on. She'd wanted to die.

The pain is far less now, yet all concentrated in her throat. "Water," she begs, almost weeping.

She doesn't understand why all those people are staring at her, or why one of them leaps forward to engulf her in his arms, saying, "You're sitting up!" over and over, like that's something special. Of course she's sitting up.

"Water, please," she begs again.

"It's not water you want," he tells her.

Before she can reply that of course she wants water, he scoops her up and rushes out through a side door. She vaguely recognizes her surroundings -- enough to dismiss them -- but what strikes her instantly upon hitting the outside air isn't the blinding brightness of the sun, or the cacophony of wild noises, or the myriad scents on the breeze. It's one, overpowering smell that makes her whimper and growl and struggle in the grip of the one carrying her. But he's bringing her _to_ it, helping her grab it around the . . . neck? He angles her head. "Bite," he says. "Bite, Bella. Drink."

Everything is still a blur but she knows her arms encircle the shoulders of something very large with short red fur and a white face. The scent of it curls around her like wood smoke, strong and enticing, and she can hear its heartbeat loud in her ears -- _pulse, pulse, pulse_ -- steady and hypnotic. It drives her nearly crazy and instinct takes over. The beast makes frightened lowing noises, then squeals as soon as she sinks her teeth in.

Warm, wet liquid explodes in her mouth. Heaven. She sucks it up and it's pure relief for the parched feeling she's had for what seems like days now. But it's not water. It's salty, it's sweet, it's got a taste of metal and grass. She can't seem to stop drinking. The beast under her is kicking feebly, but finally ceases. She keeps going until the fountain slows to a trickle, then goes dry.

She's panting. She's damp and sticky all down her front. But she's no longer in agony from the thirst. Her throat still bothers her, as if she's got the beginnings of a cold, but she can ignore it enough to think. Recognize.

Horror seizes her and she releases the cow's dead head, shoving its body away. Shockingly, it moves as if it were made of Styrofoam instead of a half-ton of meat, gristle and bone. "It's a cow!" she gasps out. "I drank out of a cow!"

"It's okay. It's what you were supposed to do." The man is still kneeling behind her, gripping her arms, holding her up. Fearful and startled, she scuttles away on hands and knees. He doesn't try to restrain her and she turns to stare. His face is shocked but also alight with joy, as if he has the sun inside him instead of shining down from above, making his skin glow, making him shimmer and sparkle and throw rainbows. He looks like a five-year-old's experiment with glitter. Yet the face is familiar and she relaxes instantly. For the first time in she can't remember how long, she feels _safe_. He's safe. She crawls back towards him and he opens his arms to her. Letting him hold her, she lays her head against his shoulder and hears a sound from him almost like a sob. He strokes her hair as bits and pieces of her memory return. Frustratingly though, it comes only in bits and pieces -- flashes in rapid playback, too quick and incomplete to make much sense of. Nonetheless, she knows this embrace, and muscles she hadn't even realized were tense unclench now. 'Safe,' she thinks again. She grips at his shirt, accidentally tearing it as if it had been made of tissue paper. Buttons pop free, distracting her with streaks of fake mother-of-pearl.

"We bought the steer for you, Bella." His voice is soft like down; she sinks into the sound of it. "We knew you'd need something large and didn't want you to have to hunt. Do you remember who you are?"

"Yes," she says. "Yes -- I think?"

But the edges are fuzzy. She recognizes her name is Bella and she knows the man holding her. "You're Edward," she whispers.

"Yes," he replies.

"You're my husband."

"Yes. Yes, I am." That sound like a sob rips out of him again and she looks up into his face. It's twisted in something closer to grief than joy now, or maybe just unspeakable relief.

"You came for me," she says, although she can't quite grasp what he was coming to take her away from. She just feels an overwhelming terror of whatever it was.

"Of course I came," he tells her, his voice cracking, one hand stroking her cheek with a barely contained desperation. "I love you."

She lays her head against his chest again, the smooth skin there half bare, and for long minutes, they say nothing at all. He just continues to hold her. She closes her eyes, trying to sort out all the sounds and smells and sensations without worrying about vision; there are so, so many things to take in. The give of his skin under her fingers, the light wind on her face, his hands in her hair, the damp earth, green spring grass, pungent cow dung, faint wood rot, lingering blood and death, salt from sweat, the wet sweetness of flowers, bitter car exhaust, the singing of birds, the rush of wind and water somewhere, sounds like animals moving through brush, the honk of a horn far way, even the buzz of flies settling on the dead Angus . . .

She recognizes these sounds and smells without necessarily understanding how she knows them, and opens her eyes. Like a puzzle, all the bits and pieces are now assembling slowly into a picture, but it's confusing. She tries matching pieces that don't quite fit and has to look for another piece. She knows, though, what she is -- what she must be.

"Vampire," she blurts out. "I'm a vampire."

"Yes." His reply is cautious.

"How did I get to be a vampire?" She turns her head to stare at him again. "I died, didn't I?"

He nods and starts to reply, but she jerks away from him abruptly to run hands all along her hips and thighs. She's not in a wheelchair. Shouldn't she be in a chair? Muscle-memory says she should be sitting yet she's balanced on the balls of her feet, squatting and leaning into Edward. He's still gripping her shoulders . . . but not holding her _up_. She's so surprised, she pops to her feet -- _her feet_ -- and stares down at herself, arms out wide as if to hold her balance. Edward stands too, still cautious. But he's smiling now.

**"I can walk!"** she shouts. Bellows, really, at the top of her lungs.

"Yes, you can. Or at least, you can stand."

Shock has been holding her up, but now, she seems to lose her sense of center and stumbles forward. He catches her. "What happened? Why did I fall?"

"Your muscles and nerves healed, but your body has to remember how to make itself balance. You haven't stood in over ten years, Bella. You've forgotten how. You were doing fine until your brain realized your body shouldn't be able to do these things."

"I'm . . . remembering."

He nods. "You are. Faster than most of us." He pauses, then adds. "I talked to you. While you were changing, I talked to you, repeated everything I could think of about you, over and over."

She frowns. She does remember -- and doesn't. It's frustrating. Memories drift like soap bubbles, surrounding her in a cloud. She chases them, exploding each. She's not sure how complete these memories are, but recalls enough to know they might not be the totality of her mortal life. Still, it seems as if more and more comes back the longer she tries. This is like waking up after a particularly long sleep and maybe a little too much to drink the night before.

Blinking, she lowers herself back to the grass, then lies down to look straight up at the sun riding at zenith in a sky as blue as lapis. Edward settles in beside her, hovering half above her, his free hand stroking her face and threading through her hair. He can't seem to get enough of touching her. She doesn't mind. It's reassuring, an odd center around which to spin while she tries to sort out everything, all the new colors and smells and sounds and sensations. He is her Maypole and she wraps him up in an intricate, bright dance.

As she spirals round and round, though, the colored ribbons of memories get darker and more ominous. She shudders and tenses again. Even so, the most recent memories ambush her and she leaps to her feet once more, balanced in a crouch. "No!" she says.

"Bella?" Edward asks. He looks startled.

"Brady Jones. He took me."

"Yes, we know. They arrested him for it."

"He . . . he . . . " She chokes on the words. "He hurt me."

Edward's eyes had been dark gold like Baltic amber, but now they go black in the space of one blink and he's in front of her, palms cupping her face. "Hurt you how? He didn't -- Bella, he didn't -- he didn't . . . " He's swallowing convulsively, the query stuck in his throat. "He didn't do _that_?"

She understands what he's absolutely terrified Brady did. "He didn't rape me," she reassures him. "I don't think it ever occurred to him. Who wants to rape the paralyzed girl? He just kicked me around a lot and broke my ankle. He wouldn't give me water. I . . . I _peed_. I couldn't help it -- I couldn't hold it anymore. I peed all over myself."

"Of course you couldn't help it," he says, looking relieved as he wraps her up in his arms again. "He had you for hours, the bastard."

"He kicked and beat me for it, when he came back later. He was furious and kept kicking me -- said I had a bladder the size of a pea."

Edward kisses her temple with the greatest gentleness, but she can _feel_ the rage pulsing in him, hardening his muscles and making his teeth grind. He might be relieved that Brady hadn't raped her, but it was a brief relief. "I'd like to rip his bladder _out_ and feed it to him."

"I was so ashamed. I remember feeling so ashamed."

"Urinating is a normal human body function, Bella. It's just a body function. Nothing to be ashamed of. The stomach and intestines process nutrients and the kidneys separate out the parts the body can't use, then store them in your bladder to expel later. It's really quite extraordinary. Human society makes it a matter of shame, but it's not. It's a sign of life." She feels him smile against her brow. "I wish I could pee because it would mean I could eat human food again. Pee, belch, sweat, spit, pass gas, have a bowel movement, blow my nose, even vomit -- all those things humans are supposed to be ashamed of. I wish I could do any of them again."

He speaks in such a matter-of-fact doctor's voice, it makes her feel better. This is why she loves him. Well, one reason. She looks up at him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. I was afraid he'd done more. When we found you . . . God, Bella -- you were a mess. You were _dying_. No, not even dying. You were -- " He stops abruptly and she watches all that horror and grief come back. "You were dead."

"I remember," she says. "Well, I remember the dying part, not the being dead. It was my fault. I tried to crawl down the ladder -- like parallel bars -- to get out of the blind so you could find me. I fell and broke a lot of things."

"You tried to _crawl down the ladder_?" His expression is full of astonishment. "You crazy, wonderful, brave, beautiful _idiot_!" And while he's half laughing, he's also crying, or would be if he could shed tears. She strokes _his_ face now, comforting him. She's feeling more settled, more in control. She can focus on him, on his eyes, and not be quite so overwhelmed by everything else around her.

"You said they arrested, Brady?" she asks.

"Yes. Just a couple hours after we found you. That was three days ago."

She's surprised even while she shouldn't be. "My dad, Renee, Martha . . . ?"

"They're all fine. I'll explain later."

"Where is everyone else? Rose and Esme and --"

"They're inside. They were waiting at first to be sure you had no trouble eating and weren't going to run. You're a Newborn. It's hard to say how a Newborn will react. But there are no humans close and once it was clear you'd be okay, they went back in to give us space. They're waiting. See?"

He points back towards the house and the sliding glass door into Bella's old bedroom. She can spot the small crowd standing there. Rose and Emmett wave. Alice blows her a kiss. She smiles. "Can we go back in? I'm . . . I'm covered in blood!" she says, just realizing it. She's managed to smear it all over his ripped shirt and slacks, too. "Ick!"

Edward smiles faintly. "First meals are like that. You're the vampire equivalent of a toddler. You'll get neater."

"Gee, thanks."

To her surprise, he scoops her up and is on his feet in an instant.

"I _can_ walk," she tells him. "I think."

"Let's take it one step at a time -- literally. I'll carry you back and help you get cleaned up. I can tell you more of what we know and you can tell me what you remember. Then we'll practice walking -- teach your brain again that it can. I doubt it'll take long. You won't need physical therapy to strengthen your muscles. You just have to remind them how to do something they haven't done in a while."

"Okay," she says.

She begins to smile and it elicits an answering smile from him. Within moments, they're both _beaming_ at each other. The crash will come later when the full impact of everything hits her, but right now, she's basking in the fact she's breathing, she's free, her memory is coming back, she can feel her legs, and she's in Edward's arms. "'If ever I should hold you once again,'" he whispers, "'I shall not be so foolish / as once I was to ever let you go / I'll hold tight, and then let come what may.'" Bending, he kisses her mouth. He tastes wonderful.

* * *

**A/N:** Edward's final quote is from Boccaccio's _Decameron_.

Just one more part after this + epilogue. I'll post the next part either Wednesday or Thursday. This was supposed to go up yesterday, but obviously, didn't get done. :p

* * *


	67. Chapter 67

**Part Summary:** Esme, Rose and Alice receive visitors.

Some of you may love me for this, some may hate me -- but I decided to go ahead and post the last part since it's ready. After this crazy week with classes starting, I figure I need to get this OFF my table. This is the last chapter. **Only the epilogue is left ... it will be at least a week for that. See end notes for more.**

**Also? All you reviewers? YOU ROCK. Really. You totally do. :-) **I *heart* you all!

* * *

"They'll be arriving any minute. Remember what we discussed and it should go all right. It _should_."

Esme squeezes Alice's hand. Alice is more nervous than even Esme or Rose, but then, Alice has the gift they must conceal at all costs from the Volturi. She's forwarned them that if the Italian coven discovers it, they'll attempt to 'collect' her and stop at nothing until they do.

The doors to Alice's shop chime. It's not another interviewee for shelter supervisor. Rose, Esme and Alice have been conducting interviews all morning for somebody to replace Bella. Four figures ghost in and lock the door behind them, turning the sign to read "Closed." They're dressed casually if stylishly -- the absolute height of current Italian fashion. Esme thinks that Alice must be drooling. They're also beautiful in a distant way.

And they're all female.

Esme didn't expect this and Alice didn't see it, which is extraordinary. "The wives?" she mutters under her breath.

The one in front smiles at her and inclines her head fractionally. "Esme Cullen, dear Carlisle's mate. I am very pleased, finally, to meet you." Her English is impeccable if heavily accented. She sweeps forward and extends her hand. "Sulpicia, Aro's mate." Esme steps out to take the hand. Sulpicia has designated her as leader so she'd best act like it. "This is Athenodora, my cousin, Caius' mate. Renata, Aro's guard, and Jane." She doesn't give more information on the flanking two. They're guards, as indicated. Esme is struck by the fact Renata is here with Sulpicia, not with Aro. Carlisle told her once that like a shadow, Renata rarely left Aro's side.

Then again, the wives never leave Volterra, or nearly never. This must be serious. Esme clings to Alice's assurance that this interview will likely turn out all right -- although if she didn't see _who_ it was with, how can she be certain things will go as forecasted? "Welcome to Helen," Esme says. "This is Rose," she gestures to Rosalie. "And this is Alice." She doesn't give either of their mates. In the last year, Esme has learned that she, and they, are defined in themselves, not always in relation to their men even without negating them. She is Esme first, mate of Carlisle second. "I hope you'll be able to stay long enough to visit with my husband? He's currently at the clinic, but he'll be finished with his appointments by four-thirty."

"Perhaps," Sulpicia allows.

"We don't like to be out of Italy," Athenadora says. She's taller and blonder than Sulpicia, and strikingly delicate. She looks as if a strong wind might break her, but Esme knows she's steel.

Sulpicia takes one of the interviewee chairs at the back table. The other three range themselves behind her. "Please," she says. "Let's sit."

Esme is still trying to absorb the fact she isn't facing Aro. On the one hand, that's advantageous because, as she understands it, the wives aren't specially gifted -- or not any more so than Esme herself. But she'd be willing to bet not only Renata, but also this Jane _is_ specially gifted. And if Alice didn't see it was the wives coming, maybe they have gifts Carlisle didn't know about? Or perhaps Alice's inability to see fully is another feature of Renata's shielding power?

Yet it's the _wives_ come to deal with this -- the famously reticent, reclusive wives . . . and without their husbands. She's not sure if that's a very good sign, or a very bad one, but suspects it's one or the other.

As if she can read Esme's mind like Aro might, Sulpicia smiles and says, "This is a matter for women, not men. Aro had wanted to come -- I think he misses Carlisle -- but I told him I would handle it." There is complete and utter confidence in her words, quashing any thoughts Esme entertained that Sulpicia is somehow the shy, obedient wife. She's the wife of the leader of the Volturi, and her bearing is that of a queen. Right now, she's extended Esme a temporary equality for the duration of the interview, but she sits in her metal folding chair as if it were a throne.

Esme takes the seat across from her. Rose and Alice don't sit, she notices. They stand behind her like the three behind Sulpicia. Sulpicia smiles again faintly. She understands what's being said here by postures if not by words. "The issue of this shelter for women has been brought to our attention. We understand that you have been working rather closely with humans -- or at least one human -- in it's creation. We also understand that one of you -- your son Edward -- even went so far as to marry this human, but that she died rather brutally. Yet no body was ever found. We came to verify that her murder was, in fact, what we suspect -- a ruse to turn her? The law, of course . . . " She doesn't elaborate on it. She doesn't need to.

Esme has been well-rehearsed by Alice. Let them believe what they're prepared to believe. Honesty -- or at least complete honesty -- isn't always the best policy. "Yes," Esme says now. "Bella was turned about two weeks ago. She and Edward are currently in Alaska with the Denali Clan, acclimating her to our lifestyle."

"So you still eat only animals?" Athenodora asks, voice curious and disbelieving.

"Yes, we do," Esme confirms.

"I don't see how you can stand it. I once had to eat a deer, long ago -- I was desperate -- and it was ... _horrendus. Orrendo._" She shudders delicately.

"One gets used to it," Esme says congenially.

"How did Edward find this human he chose for a mate?" Sulpicia asks, keeping the conversation from going off on a tangent.

Careful, careful, Esme thinks. "Bella was known to us and had the skills we needed to run this shelter. Rosalie chose her." Esme indicates Rose, who inclines her head. Lovely Rosalie no doubt intimidates them all, particularly waifish, fair Athenodora who has long been considered -- is in fact called -- the Venus of Volterra. Yet if Rose presents herself as lower in the pecking order, that should give Athenodora something to feel superior about. Esme knows Rose doesn't like it, but if the alternative is a conflict between their family and the Volturi -- and the possible destruction of their shelter -- she'll do whatever's necessary. "In any case, Edward met her while volunteering as our doctor -- "

"So he followed in Carlisle's footsteps?" Sulpicia asks.

"Yes, he did. He found her to be exceptional. They fell in love. He turned her."

"He fell in love with her as a _human_?" This seems to merit surprise from all the Volturi.

"Yes," Esme says, not dwelling.

"It didn't sound as if her abduction was planned." It's the small, blond vampire introduced as Jane. If the wives are merely superior, her expression is . . . evil. Esme can only describe it as cruel. She's suspicious that there's more here than the Cullens are admitting. Or perhaps she's just suspicious by nature.

"Jane," Sulpicia warns, turning her head only part way.

"Well?"

"The human, Brady Jones, was convenient," Esme says. "He provided a means that kept any suspicion from us."

"Well, at least _Edward_ ended up in the news," Jane points out.

"Not for long," Rosalie snaps back. She and Jane trade glares. "That was easy to deflect."

"He should never have been in the news at all. These human jobs you keep! It's unacceptable! Unnatural for vampires. You're all unnatural!"

"Jane!" Sulpicia snaps. "That is enough!" Sulpicia returns her attention to Esme. "As you can see, some among us are . . . troubled . . . by Carlisle's choice of lifestyle. Although my husband is very fond of his old friend and knows Carlisle wouldn't break our laws."

This is as much a reminder and a warning as it is a confirmation of trust.

"Of course we wouldn't," Esme says. "We understand perfectly the necessity of concealment and agree with it. That's why we made Bella a vampire." Well, it wasn't, but the Volturi don't need to know that. "She's adjusting very well, actually."

"We understand she was crippled before her turning?" Athenodora has leaned forward. "But now she can walk?"

"Aro is very interested in that," Sulpicia explains. "As you know, he fancies himself the keeper our history, and to the best of his knowledge, this is the first example of a previously crippled human being healed as a vampire."

"So there _are_ disabled vampires?" Rose asks. It's the one-time doctor in her.

"Indeed. Well, I should say there were. They rarely last long."

"They shouldn't exist at all," Jane snarls.

"Jane!"

"To become one of us should only be granted to the perfect and exceptional," Jane says. Her voice is almost _smug_.

"Bella is exceptional," Rose snaps.

"Is she gifted?" Sulpicia asks. It's casual.

"We don't know, but she hasn't shown any evidence of a gift so far," Esme says. This is, strictly speaking, true. That Eleazar has declared her gifted is something Esme will keep to herself. All they know right now is that her gift hasn't yet manifested. "What Rose means is that Isabella was a truly brave, highly intelligent, and remarkable young woman -- in part as a _result_ of her injury and her struggle to learn to live with it. She didn't let it defeat her. We feel grateful that she wanted to join us. Edward loves her very much."

"He must, if he loved her as a human," Sulpicia agrees. "But tell us -- is it true that she was paralyzed but now can walk? And can Carlisle explain it?"

Esme gestures to Rose, indicating that she should answer. "Stem cells," Rose explains. "It was actually Edward's idea. He had stem cells ready to transplant into her spine immediately at the time of her transformation, so that the venom would interact with the activated cells, fixing her previously healed injury."

"Rose is also a doctor," Esme explains. "Although she doesn't practice. Right now, she's acting as the shelter lawyer, in fact."

"Fascinating," Sulpicia says, then half turns her head to speak to Jane. "You see, Jane? It was planned as we thought. He was prepared in advance." Esme doesn't comment or explain that Edward was prepared only because of Alice's visions. Again, it's better if the Volturi don't know that. Sulpicia turns back to Esme. "Aro will be very interested in this technique. Do you think that your Edward might be willing to come to Volterra and give a demonstration?"

"You don't just buy stem cells on the market," Rose snaps. "He had to steal them."

"We can acquire the cells," Sulpicia replies cooly and Esme feels Alice's hand move to grip Rose's wrist. Like the guard Renata, Alice is saying nothing. The less said, the less regarded. Sulpicia and Athenodora were born in an time when slaves were common and non-persons had no voice. As long as Alice isn't "permitted" to speak, they'll dismiss her as unimportant.

"I'll ask him," Esme says now. "But it may be a few years. Acclimating Bella is his first priority."

"Of course," Sulpicia agrees. "She is his mate. No rush, although I do hope he will come and bring her with him. We'd all like to meet her. She is a vampire miracle. And I'm sure we could fund Edward's continued research if he'd like to move to Volterra -- or Firenze, perhaps. The better research facilities are in Firenze. It isn't so far from us. We regularly give to UNICEF's Innocenti Research Centre." Her smile is there, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Such things look good, you know. But we have influence with the staff and finding Edward a position would be quite easy."

Esme is sure it would be. She's also positive Edward won't bite, even with all the wealth of Volterra at his beck and call. He wouldn't like the strings. "I'm not certain he's planning to continue with his research. Right now, he's making up his mind what he'd like to try next." That's a flat lie. Among the first things Bella had made him promise was that he'd go back to his work, but -- again -- the Volturi don't need to know that. Nonetheless, Aro's curiosity about Bella's healing does explain some of the Volturi interest in their situation. It doesn't explain why the _wives_ are here, however.

Sulpicia leans over the table. Her perfect, long-fingered hands are folded atop it. On her left rests an enormous ruby. She wears matching ruby earrings and there's another ruby in the gold choker around her elegant neck. They gleam against the cream color of her pantsuit. "What we really want to talk about" -- ah, here it comes -- "is this shelter. We're . . . very interested."

"Sulpicia is interested," Athenadora says, earning a glare from her younger -- but more powerful -- cousin.

"This is different," Sulpicia says. "Our life" -- she glances at Athenadora -- "has become routine. Dull. When we heard about this, we were . . . intrigued. Whatever led you to invest in such a venture? And for humans?"

Esme nods again to Rose. "I'll let Rosalie explain. It was her idea."

"I was a victim of rape," Rose says simply. She's not asking for sympathy. "My then-fiancé, along with three of his friends, got drunk one evening and violated me -- left me for dead. Carlisle found and turned me."

"You let him get away with that?" Sulpicia asks, red eyes wide.

"Of course not," Rose replies. "He died. All of them died. But it didn't end the nightmares. It took me decades, but I finally realized killing them wasn't enough. Saving _others_ from suffering what I had . . . that gave me some peace. So I started the shelter. It won't be the last," Rose adds, almost challengingly.

Sulpicia leans back in her chair, one arm casually hooked over the back. "Carlisle agreed to this?"

"Carlisle isn't my keeper."

"Rose," Esme says. Then to Sulpicia, "I agreed to help as well. I was a battered wife, you see."

"Your husband killed you?"

"Not directly, no. But indirectly, yes. Rose and I . . . we had demons to exorcize, I suppose you could say."

"And have you? Exorcized them?"

"Yes," Rose says.

"I've . . . come to be on speaking terms with them," Esme replies with a smile. "But we think it's important work, and we plan to continue. Carefully, of course. Right now, we're interviewing to replace Bella's position. Then we'll gradually fill our own roles over the next year and move on. The shelter will, we hope, continue here with minimal involvement from us. We'll keep an eye on it, but through a foundation."

Sulpicia nods. "So you essentially start them, then let the humans run them?"

"That's our plan, yes."

"Why do you even care?" Jane blurts. "They're humans!"

"Jane," Sulpicia says. "If I have to ask you again to be quiet, you'll be sent out."

Esme finds terrifying the glare Jane has focused on the back of Sulpicia's head, but Sulpicia doesn't even bother to turn and look. Jane doesn't worry her, and Esme wonders if that's wise. Or perhaps Sulpicia really is that powerful.

"I'm interested in this," Sulpicia says abruptly.

"Explain why," Athenodora tells her. "Tell her why you were turned."

"Athenodora saved me," Sulpicia says simply. "She'd 'died' two years before me, or so we all believed. While on a trip with her mother, her ship was boarded by pirates and all were massacred, or so we were told."

"Actually, they were vampires, as you may suppose," Athenodora adds. "They ate the rest of the crew and passengers, but I was young and very beautiful, so they decided to turn me for their own pleasure." She purses her perfect lips. "They forgot how strong a Newborn is. I killed them all and went off on my own."

"Fortunately for me, as it turns out," Sulpicia says. "My father was highly placed in the Senate and angling to become consul under Augustus. He'd promised me to a political friend of his. I couldn't bear the man. He was twenty years older, and always smelled of fish and garlic. And he was ugly. No fit husband for a poet. But I had no say, of course." She shudders. "My wedding night was . . . _nocturna suppressio._ A nightmare. I could scarcely walk the next morning, and by the third morning, I couldn't get out of bed at all. Athenodora came to me that night and offered to make me like her. I accepted."

Sulpicia leans forward again and Athenodora seats herself on the edge of the table. "So you see why we might have some interest in this venture you've begun. For the first time in one hundred and fourteen years, I actually cared enough about something to leave the tower. We had to go shopping," she adds with a smile. "All my human clothes were quite out of fashion. Do you like it?" She holds out her arms to show off her pantsuit, sounding more like a sixteen year old preparing for prom than an ancient Roman matron.

"It's very lovely," Esme says with complete honesty.

"Versace," Sulpicia acknowledges. "He has elegant lines. Athenodora prefers Dell-Acqua, however."

"He's bold," Athenodora says. "But pretty."

Esme resists comment on this rather bizarre tangent, just hopes they get to the point soon. "Anyway," Sulpicia says, "We've decided, Athenodora and I, that we want to help." Reaching into her designer purse, she pulls out a check, which she slips across the table to Esme, along with a business card. "Humanitarian donations do look good. And this one pleases us more than most. You can register our donation to your foundation in the name of the company listed on the card."

Esme looks down and struggles not to choke. Their family has money. A lot of money. But she's holding a check for ten million dollars, handed over as if it were only a couple hundred.

The Volturi have no sense of proportion.

Yet Alice instructed her to take whatever they offered. "There will be strings, but they won't be very strong," she'd forewarned. "Primarily, they want to be kept informed. They don't like feeling caught off guard. But for once, they'll do something mostly for the right reasons."

"This is . . . extremely generous," Esme manages.

"We know," Athenodora says. Her grin is almost _impish_. And mostly good-natured. Esme has no doubt both cousins can be horrific; she's heard stories about Sulpicia from Carlisle. But right now, they're all on the same side.

"Some of us" -- Sulpicia glances back at Jane -- "may regard humans as wild animals, but not all of us think so. Lesser, certainly, but we were once like them. Some serve us very well, and several have unique talents worth nurturing. They merit distinction and praise, perhaps eventual inclusion. Yet even the masses deserve to be treated humanely."

"With a few exceptions," Athenodora adds.

"Yes, well, we may pay a visit to this Brady Jones while we're here. If your Bella is now one of us, he deserves to be punished for what he did to her, even if it was pre-arranged."

Esme is quietly horrified, but doesn't even try to protest. She also doesn't intend to point out that Sulpicia is describing humans as if they were stray animals with a few deserving of pet status. Of course, to the Volturi, that's exactly what humans are.

Sulpicia stands suddenly. "We'll want annual reports, of course," she says. "But they don't have to be detailed. We trust you. We just want to be involved."

Esme stands as well. "You're leaving so soon?"

"Yes. We miss home. But we may come back to visit. We'd like to see how you start one of these shelters."

"Sulpicia likes shopping," Athenodora says. "She wants more clothes, and needs an excuse to wear them."

"That's not it," Sulpicia says. "Entirely."

Turning, she and her cousin head for the shop exist, unlocking the door and flipping the sign back to "Open."

"Come Renata, Jane. Stay in touch, Esme. Give our love to Carlisle."

They exit. Little Jane is the last out. She pauses to look back at them. Her eyes are narrow and her lips thin. Then turning, she steps through.

The door closes.

Esme sags and breathes out. Both Rose and Alice engulf her in a hug. "You were spectacular!" Alice says.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope this is both completely a surprise ... and still makes perfect sense. Hee. Given how the story has gone, who else could it have been?

The addition to Renata's power is purely my extrapolation. Renata's power does cause others to "look away" or forget what they were meaning to do (to Aro), so I thought maybe she could cause Alice not to see as clearly as she would have normally. Thus, Alice knew the Volturi were coming and that it _could_ work out ... but just assumed it would be the three brothers. Renata isn't trying, by the way, as they don't know what Alice can do. It's just a by-product of her shield. (I like it when Alice's power has some limitations.)

The cousins use both Latin and Italian occasionally, so "horrendus" isn't a misspelling. It's Latin for "horrible." Firenze = Florence. On the Volturi wives, I did some Googling and decided to make Sulpicia the daughter of Servius Sulpicius Rufus, setting her human life during the reign of the Emperor Augustus. Although she only alludes to it here, she was a poet of no little reknown. My apologies to anybody who _actually_ knows Roman history if I made any stupid mistakes, but I wanted her to have been somebody important, explaining why Aro chose her even though she was younger and perhaps not as pretty as Athenodora. Btw, both their _names_ (and relationship) are canon.

* * *

As noted above, only the epilogue is left. I'll be preparing some after-notes, I think, with thank-yous, etc., but also the rationales behind some of my decisions. A few additional things will be answered in the epilogue (what happened to Charlie, Martha, Renee ...), but now that you've read the bulk of it, if you have a burning question you really want me to address, feel free to shoot me a PM and I'll try to include it. Not everything got an extensive resolution just because it wasn't a main part of the story. This is really a story about the Cullen women, as much as Bella and Edward. :-)

**No, I have no plans to write a sequel (or other story).** I know many of you have asked, and that may be a disappointment, but _In the Blink_ doesn't need a sequel. How it would end was plotted out before I ever started writing and anything more would be boring. As for another story ... I got nuthin', I'm afraid. I'm primarily a _reader_ and right now, I'm hugely behind in all the stories I'm following! I'm actually looking forward to the chance to catch up and go back to just reading. Ha!

In fact, I'm not really a _fiction_ writer, see. I'm a journalist. _In the Blink_ was my flirtation with the "dark side." I just don't have any other stories to tell right now, to be honest. In the case of _Blink_, I had a wild and crazy idea that I wanted to tell, so I sat down to tell it. But that's all I got. I will say this little exercise has given me _enormous_ respect for you writers who turn out story after story. I'm exhausted! :-D

XXOO, Katie


	68. Chapter 68

**Part Summary:** Three moments in Bella's future. (And I'll just say, before you start, you might want a few tissues handy. This story comes full circle)

One year ago today, the first chapter of this went up here. Today, I conclude it. :-)

I am a little behind on answering previous reviews, so if you wrote in the last few days, I've been finishing this epilogue. I'll try to get off at least a "thanks" before tackling new responses.

* * *

**September 13, 2018**

"Hi, mom."

Bella watches on the television screen behind Jasper at the projection booth as her mother lifts her head. Renee occupies a blue polyester folding chair like spectators take to barbeques, fireworks shows or their children's sporting events. But she's not at any of those. She's seated in front of a pair of sugar maple saplings planted on the shelter grounds in memory of first Mark, then of Bella. Still young, the trees throw no real shade yet, even the taller one. Renee has a photo album on her lap. It contains pictures of Bella from birth until the year before her "death." This is Renee's way of remembering her daughter on what should have been her birthday-- "celebrating, not grieving," as she put it to Martha. It's still grieving.

Bella's not sure how much this little "visitation" they have planned will help, but hopes it'll help some. Renee never got to say goodbye, and never had any sort of decent explanation. Now, Bella can see Renee's mouth open into a little O. "Bella? Bella, honey?" She's staring straight ahead where Bella knows her hologram appears between the two saplings.

"It's me, Mom." Bella takes a little step forward inside the small projection area, letting Renee see that she can walk now (however awkwardly) and therefore cementing in her mother's mind that this is a true visitation by demonstrating something a living Bella could never do. Fooling Renee doesn't mean Renee is a fool, even if she is inclined to believe in the supernatural. Renee also grew up with FX movie magic. She's not ignorant of technological illusion and it would take more than a hologram to convince her she's seeing a real ghost, however much she might want to believe. "I didn't get to say good-bye," Bella continues now.

Her mother's expression crumples as she struggles out of her folding chair, setting aside the photo album so she can hold her hands towards Bella's ghostly form. "Bella?"

"I love you, Mom. I wanted you to know that. But I'm in a better place now."

"I'm so sorry, honey," Renee says, arms still outstretched although she makes no attempt to move forward. "I'm sorry we couldn't find you in time!"

"Don't blame yourself, Mom. There was nothing you could do. And it's my own fault, actually."

"But that man . . . !"

"Oh, he took me. But I'm the one who tried to get out of the hunting blind by myself. I had to try. I fell and hurt myself badly."

"The police weren't exactly sure what happened," Renee says, letting her arms fall. "They couldn't . . ." She chokes up. "They couldn't find your body."

"That's because I became part of the Circle of Life -- like in _The Lion King_." Okay, Bella thinks, that was really corny. At his controls behind the camera, Jasper is biting his tongue to keep from laughing. But she thinks the allusion might help her mother. They'd watched that movie hundreds of times when Bella was a little girl. "It doesn't matter, really. I was dead before the wolves found me. I didn't feel any pain, and they were only acting as nature made them."

"So Brady Jones didn't . . . he didn't kill you?"

"Only indirectly. But I wanted you to know what happened to me -- that I didn't really suffer, or not like I could have."

Renee's face is wet with tears. "I could just imagine . . . "

"I know. That's why I wanted you to know the truth. What you imagined was worse than what really happened. You're my mom. I didn't want you to suffer with those nightmares anymore. I'm happy, mom. I'm fine now."

Renee's face appears torn between relief and deep sorrow. "Oh, baby. I'm so glad. I miss you so much. Are you with Mark at last?"

She dodges the question. "I'm with a lot of people I love, and who love me."

It's enough of a lie to let Renee believe Bella is actually dead and coming back to her as a ghost. Bella doesn't want to lie to her mother further. "I can't stay much longer, Mom, but I wanted you to know the truth so you can stop worrying about me -- and about what happened. I'm healed, and I'm happy. And I'll see you again one day." That much, she does believe; even for vampires, 'forever' tends to have limits.

"Okay, baby. Can I touch you? You don't look solid."

"I'm not. You wouldn't feel anything. It's just presence."

"Ectoplasm," Renee says knowledgeably. She watches a few too many paranormal shows on A&E.

"I'm not sure what you'd call it," Bella says. Behind the camera, Jasper is mouthing, 'pixels of light,' and Bella struggles to keep a straight face. He's irreverent, but saying goodbye is no easy task and this would be much harder if not for his dry wit. "But I do love you, Mom. Take care of yourself, and be sure Phil takes care of you, too."

"I love you too, baby," Renee says, barely able to get the words out. "You're my precious little girl. I'm so glad your soul came to live with me for a while." Her arms extend again towards Bella although she doesn't attempt to approach the projection as it slowly fades away. Bella's glad she's not actually standing there or she wouldn't be able to resist running into Renee's arms. Fortunately, she's several miles away in Rosalie's basement where they've set up the projection equipment. The basement is empty now, which is why they selected it instead of Jasper's cluttered library. Rosalie and Emmett are moving on soon to start another shelter in another place. Esme and Carlisle will follow. Alice and Jasper won't quite yet. Alice can't find anyone to buy her business and is reluctant just to close it. It's been an outlet for local women to earn a little extra money, so she's looking into a way to make it a part of the shelter somehow. That can't be done overnight.

Edward and Bella aren't following either. They're going back to school. Or rather, Bella is -- a new graduate program in a new state -- while Edward starts his residency again. Bella feels a little guilty for not staying with Rose and Esme, but these women's shelters aren't her dream, not the way they've become theirs. Bella helped because she'd had the expertise and contacts, and had needed the job. Her personal passion is different, more esoteric and theoretical.

She moves away from the projection platform now to watch as Jasper shuts down the equipment. He'll go to the shelter later to remove the tiny cameras hidden in the saplings. Edward comes forward from where he's been waiting silently in a corner, wrapping her up in his arms and resting his chin atop her head. Bella clings to him. He doesn't say anything. What is there to say?

This is the down side of being a vampire.

* * *

**October 23, 2022**

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny!"

Laughter and toasts echo through Billy Black's house where he's holding an informal retirement party for Charlie. After 35 years on the force, Charlie Swan has finally turned in his badge for a full pension and a fishing poll whenever the steelhead or salmon are biting. Bella thinks he won't know what to do with himself, but after serving the public for so long in a dangerous occupation, he deserves to enjoy his golden years. Billy has promised her privately that he'll keep Charlie occupied.

That had been an . . . interesting . . . conversation. Billy still isn't sure what to make of Bella's Change, although Jacob insists his father is glad he no longer has to hide things from Charlie. Bella remains his best friend's only daughter, the little girl he watched grow up. Yet she's also his tribe's arch nemesis, at least in form, and he struggles with that.

Bella thinks her Change may be the best thing that ever happened to the Quileute, forcing them to see the people behind the vampires. Jacob remains her staunch friend even if he smells horrible to her and she smells horrible to him. She still telephones Irene regularly and the little boy Irene was carrying has been named William Charles. Bella can't thank them enough for that. She'll never be able to give Charlie a grandchild, but -- as she'd once teasingly put it to Irene -- they had a couple extra. Certainly all four of the Black children are well-provided for by their adoptive, undead aunt and uncle.

Just now, Billy Junior is an energetic five-year-old keeping his three elder sisters busy chasing him, and Billy Senior's back yard has become an odd ground for detente. Eight vampires, ten werewolves, their mates, assorted offspring and parents all congregate to celebrate one human man. Despite the cold and misty drizzle, they're outside because the open air is less offensive to delicate noses (vampire or wolf). The humans suffer through it in heavy down jackets.

Bella makes her way through the crowd to stand next to Charlie. Vampire, wolf and human step aside unobtrusively to give her limping step room, but she's not offended. The fact she can walk at all, however imperfectly, is miraculous, and she finds it oddly fitting that, as a vampire, she's just as awkward as she was when human.

She can hunt, but she's not graceful at it. And Edward still buys her cows sometimes because the sight of her lurching along hurts his heart. He thinks he failed her somehow. She reminds him -- repeatedly -- that not only did he save her, he gave her back something she'd never thought to have . . . feeling in her lower body. The muscles still don't respond perfectly, but she can stand, walk, even run, however badly. She must be the slowest vampire ever, married to one of the fastest. Without her family, she might not have survived her first year.

But she has a family, and not only of the vampire sort.

"Hey, Dad," she says now.

He grins down at her. "I'd offer you a beer, but . . . "

"It's the thought that counts," she replies. She likes that they can joke about her new diet.

"How're the classes going?"

"This is my last semester of them, then I can get busy on the dissertation again. Maybe this time, I'll finish it." Her expression is wry. She and Edward have entirely new identities -- not Cullen, Masen, Swan or even Jackson -- but she doesn't dare follow exactly the abstract she'd begun as her human self. Instead, she's taking a tangential approach and hoping it doesn't arouse too much interest from people who might have known her before. That's always the danger in academia, because when it comes down to specializations, each is a pretty small pond. Jasper's advice has been extremely helpful in how to successfully wade through it without stepping on the sharks hiding in the sand.

"I'm sure you'll get it finished," Charlie says now. He may not understand what she's doing, but he'll support her 100%, just as he had when she'd still had a beating heart. "And Edward? He seems like he's grown up a lot but he's still, uh, being good to you?"

She can't help but grin. "Yes, Daddy. He's wonderful. I've been fortunate in my choice of husbands."

Charlie nods, not adding anything else. Heart-to-hearts still confound him, but he loves her enough to try.

"Hey, Charlie!" Emmett calls from the doorway to Billy's living room. "Last game for the AL pennant is starting in ten minutes! Hernandez is pitching! Come watch 'em trash the Indians!" He blinks, as if suddenly realizing how that sounded. "Well, you know what I mean."

Jacob laughs and slaps Emmett playfully on the shoulder as he squeezes past into the house. Ever since their hunt together for Bella, they've become friends. "Anybody playing the Indians -- or the Yankees -- is my team. It's just icing on the cake if it's the Mariners."

The Mariners win. Bella thinks that probably her dad's best retirement present of all. Seattle is going to the World Series. Edward might be almost as excited as Charlie. "It figures," she tells Irene later as she helps clean up dishes in Billy's kitchen. "The two main men in my life bonded over _baseball_."

Irene just chuckles. "I'd say it's a guy thing, but I like baseball. At least they bonded. My dad's still making Jacob jump through hoops after, what, fourteen years and four kids now?"

"Well, we'll see what happens. The Cubs are still in the playoffs for the National League. Edward might call me a traitor, but this is one year I hope the curse isn't broken. My life would get really interesting if the Mariners play the Cubs in the series."

* * *

**May 19, 2031**

"Are you comfortable, Martha?"

"I'm fine, honey, but you can give me another sip of water. My lips get so dry . . . "

Bella reaches over to fetch the little plastic cup with its straw, holding it while Martha drinks. Bella tries to conceal that her hands are shaking but Martha has to reach up and steady the cup anyway.

How ironic that the impossibly strong vampire is too weak to hold a cup steady and it takes the feeble touch of a dying human to keep it from spilling. But their relationship was always like that. Mark and Martha taught Bella that strength isn't measured in muscles but in spirit, and however much the cancer has stolen her girth and strong voice, left her gray at the lips and puffy in the face from the chemo, Martha's spirit towers even now.

The lights are low; it's the middle of the night. This is the only time it's safe for Bella to visit as both Martha's daughters and all her grandkids are in Rochester now. The end is approaching and somebody stays at the hospital at all times during the day. The night is for Rosa and Jada to rest, and for Martha's _other_ daughter to take her secret turn as sentinel. Martha doesn't sleep well, so Bella keeps her company when she wakes.

Bella looks up now as Carlisle ghosts in. She heard him arrive, even if Martha didn't.

He's not Martha's doctor. He's Martha's friend, and here in that capacity. Bella should have guessed that, from the moment they met, these two old souls would find in each other a common ground they didn't have elsewhere, not even Carlisle with Esme. "Spouses aren't supposed to be everything to you," Martha had told Bella once not long after her marriage to Mark. "That's not healthy. We all need other friends, other interests. If you spend all your time together, after a while, you got nothing to talk about." She'd laughed. "I should know. Mark's dad and I learned that the hard way." So Martha and Carlisle have been friends for almost twenty-five years despite distance and a need for occasional subterfuge. Bella thinks Carlisle will miss her as much as Bella will.

Now, he takes a seat on Martha's other side across from Bella, and Martha gives him her hand. "So what did the chart say today?" she asks.

"Your white count has dropped again, I'm afraid." It's bad news and Carlisle doesn't sugar-coat it, nor does Martha want him to. He comes each night to give her the real story, although her doctors are fairly honest. But this is the Mayo Clinic, the specialists here among the best in the world. They don't like to lose, and the death of a patient is losing, to their minds. Not to Martha's. Bella wants to be mature and say not to her either, but when it's Martha who's dying, she feels more like five than 44. She wants to go off in a corner and throw a temper tantrum.

Martha is here because Carlisle, and Edward, convinced her to come. They both work here, albeit in different departments -- Edward predictably in Neurology, and Carlisle in Hematology. Bella knows he enjoys the joke of a vampire specializing in blood diseases, but he's also very, very good at it. Together, they brought Martha to Rochester, Minnesota after the cancer returned for a third time. At first, the results from new, experimental treatments were very promising, but then the old tumors stopped shrinking, her white counts dropped despite WBC boosters, and new tumors appeared in key internal organs. The cancer had become Stage IV. Her lead doctor -- a friend of Carlisle's -- admitted the last option was total-body irradiation. It was risky because not only did such an intense radiation treatment kill the cancer, it also nearly killed the patient. Afterward, the (dead) bone marrow could be replaced with new cloned marrow in the hope that a transplant would take. If it didn't, she'd die quickly.

Martha opted to die slowly, instead -- or at least, not to die as sick and weak as the treatment would have left her. "It might make sense if I was forty, but I'm seventy-three. My body is tired. For everything there is a season, a time to be born, and a time to die. I'm not afraid. I'm ready to go home to Clint." Mark's father, who'd passed some 35 years earlier.

Bella had fought Martha's decision. Carlisle hadn't. Now he studies her face and sniffs her wrist. She lets him. "How's the pain cocktail working?"

"Pretty good. Except at night."

"There are less distractions at night to keep your mind off of it."

Martha smiles and looks at Bella, patting her hand. "I've got a few distractions when I need 'em. We're halfway through Maya Angelou's _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_." Martha doesn't add that they're reading it because Martha had wanted Bella to hear it. Martha knows the book inside and out. Even here, at the end, she's still the mentor. Bella wonders sometimes if Martha has a selfish bone in her body? Bella might not believe in Martha's Bible, but she's come to believe in saints, and souls, and salvation, and in the depth of human goodness, as well as the extremes of human evil. She's seen both.

Now, Martha settles back against her pillow. "Actually, I'm tired," she says abruptly, and that fast, her eyes droop and she drops off again." Worried, Bella looks to Carlisle, but he just lays her hand down on the sheet.

"It's the drugs," he reminds her. "She'll drift in and out of consciousness." He doesn't add, "until the end," but Bella understands it.

"You can go down and see Edward for a while. I'm sure she'll be out for another hour or two."

Rising, Bella nods and makes her way to the door, Carlisle shadowing her. Out in the empty hallway, Bella asks, "How long does she have? Any idea?"

"Hard to say. She's a little worse today than yesterday, but it's been five days since Jerry stopped her treatments with no serious change, just a slow slide. The tumors have yet to recover from the last bouts of radiation and chemo."

"So it could be several more weeks? Maybe some months?"

She can tell from Carlisle's expression he thinks that overly optimistic. "She should have at least another week -- more than that, I don't want to predict. When she's awake, she's fully aware. The cancer isn't in her brain yet."

But it was in the rest of her -- liver, bones, pancreas and most other soft-tissue organs. It had all started seven years ago with a swollen lymph node under her right arm. Chemo and a partial mastectomy had seemed to do the trick, but three years later, it was back. More chemo and more surgery, and two-and-a-half years of remission that time. On this third return, it had shown up in several other organs. Chances weren't good. They'd sought a miracle in Minnesota.

But not everything in life had a miraculous ending, no matter how much Martha's congregation has prayed. Or how much Edward does.

Bella parts ways with Carlisle when he gets off the elevator on his own department floor. She goes down alone to the hospital chapel. Edward is there. He comes every night after work to spend time on his knees while she spends time in Martha's room. Sometimes he comes up to join them, but he always prays first. He's returned to the faith of his childhood with a tenacity that astounds Bella; he even credits her survival and healing for his conviction. "I prayed for you and my prayers were answered. I believe again."

She finds that logic somewhat simplistic, but won't tell him so. It gives him peace, and she's glad of that. Edward is, at the root of things, a devout man, and his inability to believe -- at least in his own potential salvation -- has been a blight on his spirit for decades. Since her turning, he's found himself once more. And if he weren't a vampire, and a protestant, and a very good doctor -- not to mention rather fond of sex -- she thinks he'd probably make a good monk.

In any case, he's been praying for Martha for years now, to no avail. By his own logic, that should cast doubt on his renewed convictions, but his belief remains unwavering. Now, he looks around when he hears her enter. At this hour of night -- or really, of early morning -- no one else is in the little room. Edward stands and approaches her, taking her hands and bending to kiss her cheek. "Why do you continue to do this!" Bella blurts suddenly as all her frustration boils up. "It's not doing her any good! She's still dying."

Edward just shakes his head. "I'm not praying for her to live, Bella. Not now."

"Why are you praying then?"

"I'm praying for her to die well, and easy."

"I don't want her to die at all!" She almost shouts it.

Edward doesn't reply, just wraps her up in his arms and holds on with vampire strength even when she fights him. Finally, tired emotionally if not physically, she gives up and sobs. "We could save her. Why won't she let us save her?"

"Becoming a vampire isn't saving her." He pulls away to tip her head up. "_We'll_ miss her. But I think she's ready to go. She's lingered here a long time without her husband and without one of her children. She's lonely, I think. Carlisle thinks so, too. Changing her wouldn't save her. It would condemn her."

Bella sniffs even if there's nothing to sniff back; it's reflex. She knows the truth of what he's said, deep down inside. She'd thought the same thing once when it had come to herself, and if she'd opted to live on with Edward instead of dying too soon, she'd been 28 then. At 73 and a widow of decades, Martha's choices aren't the same. Living forever isn't always a gift and Bella is well-aware of that.

She just isn't ready to say good-bye.

And she understands now why so many vampires avoid forming emotional ties with humans. Losing them is the real hell, not anything of fire and torment imagined by a Medieval Church. She moves back into Edward's arms and lets him hold her while they sit together in a pew.

It turns out that Carlisle's estimate is very close to accurate, regarding how long Martha has left to live. She hangs on for eight more days. As the end approaches, she slips further and further into a drugged sleep much of the time. By the fourth day after that talk with Carisle, the doctors have told Rosa and Jada the same thing -- the end is right around the corner -- so they stop taking night breaks. This makes it harder for any of the vampires to see Martha for obvious reasons. Bella is "dead," and while Martha's daughters know their mother and Carlisle have stayed in touch for years, they haven't seen him but once since Bella's memorial service -- and certainly wouldn't expect him to still look in his early thirties. He's arranged some meetings with them in the last few months, but always with make-up help from Alice.

Unfortunately, the few times one of her daughters or grandchildren aren't in the room now, Martha is firmly unconscious. Bella begins to think she'll never have that last chance to say goodbye. Saying goodbye was denied her with Mark, too.

It's finally Martha, in one of her rare lucid states, who insists that Jada -- the one with her at the time -- go home and "get a real shower and some real food, and I don't want to see you back here for a couple hours. I'll be just fine in that time." Jada tries to argue, but her mother is still her mother and very good at giving orders. Jada leaves.

Ten minutes later, when they're certain Jada won't come back, Bella and Edward tiptoe in. Martha gives them both a smile. Her face is no longer puffy from the chemo. Instead, the skin looks stretched over the bones so her high forehead and prominent cheekbones stand out further. Her dark skin is splotchy and the hand she holds out trembles. Bella might no longer have tears, but she can still cry, and all but throws herself on Martha's body while being careful not to accidentally crush her. Martha holds her and lets her sob, patting her back. Finally, she pushes Bella away a little and Bella responds instantly to the hint. "Let me talk to Edward for a minute, okay?"

Bella nods, and steps back. Her heart is breaking, but she's no stranger to that helpless, shattered feeling. She's faced it before, and she won't deny Edward a few minutes. Martha grips his wrist to pull him close. "Open the drawer in the beside table. You'll find a little purple velvet covered box. Pull that out."

He does as requested, and sure enough, there's a small box in there in a very faded purple velvet bag. He hands it to Martha, but must help her undo the drawstring. Inside is a wooden box that opens to reveal a plastic bottle with a few inches or purple liquid and another container with some squares of bread. It's Martha's portable communion dispenser. "I wanted to do this for you one last time," she tells him, "so I had Rosa bring it to me yesterday. I told her one of the nurses I'd got close to asked me."

Edward's face is a study in grief and devotion, but he helps her open the jars and fill the little glass communion cup. Martha was the first person he'd taken communion from after decades without it. He'd been reluctant, afraid it would offend God for a vampire to take the sacrament, but Martha had talked him into it. Bella, who looks at it all as a sip of grape juice and bite of bread doesn't really grasp why it's so meaningful to Edward, but knows it is, even if he has to cough it back up later. Yet as far as Bella knows, the only time he accepts communion is from Martha, although he faithfully attends Episcopal services every Sunday he's able.

Now he kneels beside the bed even though, tall as he is, his head barely clears the mattress. He bows it and rests clasped hands on the white bed sheet. Martha lays her hand on his crown and says, "Father God, I just ask you to watch over this man, your faithful servant. I know he don't think he's worthy, but I also know you take anybody with an open heart, and there ain't nothing we can do that the blood of your Son can't wash away. You know I've told him this and told him this, Lord, but now, he's going to have to listen to you. Amen."

Bella thinks Martha aimed that less at any deity than at Edward.

Hand still on Edward's head, Martha goes on, "On the night in which Jesus was betrayed, he took the bread and he broke it and he gave it to his disciples saying, 'Take, eat, for this is my body that is broken for you.'" Very carefully, she picks up the little bit of bread in her free hand and offers it to Edward. Normally, she'd put it right in his mouth -- heedless of either venom or sharp teeth -- but right now, her fingers shake too badly. He takes it from her and puts it in his own mouth. Bella hopes that's symbolic, not just practical. "Then he took the cup," Martha continues, "and he blessed it and gave it to his disciples, saying, 'Take, drink, for this is my blood that is shed for you. Do this in remembrance of me.'" Martha can't even pick up the little cup. Edward has to do it himself. "Amen," Martha says when he downs it and hands it back, getting to his feet again as Martha puts the communion box away.

"Thank you," he says, beautiful voice husky with emotion.

"No, thank you, hon. I wasn't sure I'd get to do that one last time." She has to let him put the box back in the bag because her hands can't. Instead, she eyes him. "But don't let it be _your_ last time. I'm just the vessel. Anybody can be the vessel."

"'An outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace,'" Edward parrots.

"That's right. It ain't me who makes a sacrament a sacrament. That's between you and God. Now, put that away and look in that drawer again. There's a stole in there -- the yellow, orange and blue one -- get it out. The other's for Carlisle."

Edward nods and retrieves the stole. It's a long piece of heavy fabric made in the style of African Kente weaving. Bella recognizes it as one of several Martha wears over her robes. "Do you know what a stole really is?" she asks him. Edward just tilts his head, puzzled. "It's a towel," she explains. "It's supposed to represent the towel Jesus used at the Last Supper when he washed his disciples' feet, and pastors wear it to remind them they ain't the star of the show. They're just servants. But we're not the only servants out there. Doctors are servants too, so I want you to have this, to remind you you're God's servant.

Edward is crying openly now even without tears, his shoulders shaking as he presses his face to the stole. "Thank you," he manages.

"Just you take good care of that, remember what it makes you, and watch over my Bella."

She gestures for Bella to approach then. Gingerly, Bella sits on the side of Martha's bed. They just look at each other. Martha appears very tired again and Bella suspects she'll slide back into unconsciousness soon. Leaning over, Bella embraces the woman who has become her mother by choice, if not by birth. "I'm going to miss you so, so much."

"I'll be right here, hon," Martha tells her, pushing her away enough to pat her chest. "That might not beat, but it's still a real heart and you still carry around the people you love in it, regardless of whether they're still breathing. As long as you live, I'll live on in you."

Bella knows this admonition is true. Mark lives still in her heart even after all this time, and despite Edward sharing space there. The thing about real love, she's learned, is that it just gets bigger. It never shrinks. Truly loving one person doesn't mean she can't love another just as much. Love pays no attention to the laws of physics. Bella closes a hand gently over Martha's. "Then you'll live a long, long time," she says, trying to joke.

"I expect I will." She looks up above Bella's head where Bella can feel Edward standing at her back. "You two take care of each other."

"We will," Bella promises.

"I'll be watchin' from up there." Martha points up, although mostly as a joke.

"We know," Edward says.

"Tell Mark 'Hello,'" Bella manages to get out. "Tell him I still think of him every day and I love him." Once she might have felt badly for admitting that in front of Edward, but not now. She can feel his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in support.

"I suspect he knows," Martha says. "But I'll tell him." Her eyelids are drooping and her words are starting to slur. "You two run along now and send Carlisle in while I'm still awake. I got some things to say to him too. I'd tell you 'goodbye' but it's just gonna be a long 'till we meet again.'"

Bending, Bella kisses her paper-fragile cheek. "I love you . . . Mom."

She lets Edward lead her out then. Part of her old life, her human life, may lie in the bed behind her but she's not leaving it behind. As Martha had said, she carries inside her all the people she's known and loved. She's fortunate to have such clear memories of her human life and to have been able -- for a little while -- to continue in contact with her family. She'll never forget them. She never wants to. They made her. She is the sum total of all things, human and now vampire. Her body is different, and in some ways, it's better. But not in all ways. It's just different. The essential Bella remains.

And the essential Bella is the soul of the vampire.

* * *

**A/N:** And there you have it. Please don't send me hate mail for that last part. It really was planned from the very beginning! We started with the loss of Mark, and ended with the loss of Martha, but if one is a tragedy, the other isn't, not really. Death isn't always tragic. This novel has been, all along, about the beauty of human Bella (even after she becomes a vampire). So the epilogue needed to deal with human things rather than lots of information about her vampire life. I've tried to give some hints about her future with Edward, but it wasn't the focus.

**Last random notes:** I know there were more wolves in the books, but I figure with the Cullens mostly gone from Forks, some would never have transformed. The curse Bella refers to with the Cubs is the infamous "curse of the goat" that, supposedly, has kept the Cubs from winning a World Series for over 100 years. _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_ is both a poem by Angelou as well as the title of her literary autobiography, published in 1969. As for Martha's cancer, by 2031, I hope there are better treatments, but I'm not doctor enough to even guess what they might be so I stuck with what I did know. There's a picture of Martha's (now Edward's) stole on my profile page and in my LJ scrapbook gallery. :-)

Thank you for taking this long journey with me. It's a little sad to bring it to an end, but it really has given me new respect for the huge task authors face with, writing a book, so I'm glad I did it.

Probably sometime in the next month or so, I'll editorialize a little on a few things that were going through my head when coming up with the story idea. But as I said at the end of the last part, I don't really have any other stories in mind. A couple readers have asked for Bella and Edward's "first vampire time" as an outtake if it wasn't in this (and it wasn't because it wouldn't have fit). I may do that at some point, but not for a while. I never say 'never,' but for now, I'll bid readers adieu and thank you again for all your wonderful comments and support over the last year while I wrote this!

Thanks again!

~Katie


	69. Chapter 69

**Special Update:**

For personal reasons (a ridiculously full teaching schedule and being recently put in charge of a bi-annual local conference and ongoing project), I am no longer able to reply to reviews and questions. But that said, I wanted to give a **BIG THANK YOU** to **EVERYBODY** for the wonderful feedback and kind words that have been sent my way since the completion of this story in August 2009. I do still check my messages about once every 1-2 weeks and read *every* review. I just have too many to reply to anymore, but I didn't want anyone to think I was ignoring her/him in particular, or didn't appreciate readers taking time to leave a review. Writing this story was tons of fun and I'm thrilled readers seem to enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed the chance to write it. I can't tell you how flattering that is!!! As I used to reply to all reviews, I feel a little badly about this decision, but work has been requiring virtually all of my time since the new (academic) year began.

Best to all of you in 2010 and beyond!

~Katie (that_writr)


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